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https ://arch i ve. o rg/detai Is/arch i ve 62 d u rh 

November, 1948 



A NOTE OF PESSIMISM by william styron 





fawsawa’s on her wav 

BE careful! 
iVe learned frow 

Than jungle born ! 

//OV QV7//^/OOS£/ 

se/cT/i/v/i iSAPS Tft/iot/e» 



L RUNWAY... AND try 



T££ a££r r££C£££* 


TAUGHT Clyde Gordon 

diverting her attention 




NO —that's The 
WORST Thing 


A cigarette! with smoker 


compared-camels are the 
“CHOICE OF experience"! 

J. HeynoldeTobacco Co., Winston-Salem, N. C. 


that was Close, chief, Y thanks..7N 

things right!. ..have ycOMES in handy 
a camel! ^ whether you're 

handling animals or 
Choosing a cigarette I 
THAHS why I SMOKE camels' 


to a Nationwide survey: 


When 113,597 doctors were 
asked by three independent 
research organizations to name 
the cigarette they smoked, 
more doctors named Camel 
than any other brand! 

Let your “T-Zone” 
tell you why! 

Zoo Curator Clyde Gordon says: 

T for Taste... 

T for Throat 

. . . that's your prov¬ 
ing ground for any 
cigarette. See if 
Camels don't suit your 
■*T-Zone" to a “T." 

General Curator and Director 
Staten Island Zoo 



November. 1948 


A NOTE OF PESSIMISM wsxum styjion 



POIr'I'KY STOWIS • ART1C:J3 • IKX->K Hrvitws 


Editor: R. D. Loomis. Coed Editor: 
Ginny Jones. Poetry Editor: Doris 
Charrier. Art Editor: Jack 
Stringer. Associate Editors: Leslie 
Blatt, Marcia Norcross, Bob Wil¬ 

Assistants: Liz Frost, Malcolm 
Magavv, Nancy Smith, Dick Null, 
Clarence Brown, Sally Byrne, 
CiLE McLean, Carrie Chamberlain, 
Colbert Smith, Cynthia Huyler, 
Virgil Black, Taye Taylor, Mary 

\Business Manager: Coring B. Wal¬ 
ton. Assistant Business Manager: 
Oewey Huffines. Adx'ertising Man- 
iger: Dean A. Rhodes. Coed Busi- 
less Manager: Joan Harding. Ex- 
hange Editor: Mary Jeanne Brad- 
.EY. Circniation Manager: Hugh 


^Iattox. Ad Layout Manager: Pa- 
RiciA Wright. 

Assistants: Doris 1,eper, Martin 
iIiAZZA, Bill Lutz, Prank V^ehh, 
iM Kennedy, Bid CA:orge, Clyde 
'arquhar, Betiy Binnion, Marilyn 
.Iyers, Laura Duncan. 




^ A Literary (hiarterly Published By The Students Of 

Duke Unixiersity, Durham North Carolina 

VoL. 62 November, 1948 No. 1 



A Note of Pe.ssimism 9 

By William Styron 

Sketches: Helen Bevington 12 

By Marcia Norcross 

"Let Me Teli, You About the Very Rich” 20 

A (Critical Survey of F. Sc:ott P i rzciERALD 
By R. D. Loomis 

“Don’t Just Execute” 29 

A View of Modern Dance 
By Jo Reynolds 


Well, Boys, That’s That 14 

By (Juay Origg 

Three Dead Plies In A Coblet of Wine 25 

By Cruy Dax’enport 


Reflections 11 

By Dianne E or rest 

Academic Roll Call 15 

By Helen Bevington 

The Traveller 19 

By Donald Murray 

Robinson Jeffers’ The Double Axe 23 

By Kifjin Hayes 

Suite Metropolitan 24 

By Norman K. Nelson 

Aftermath 28 

By Ginny Jones 


.Scraps for the Literati 3 

Leger Paines 7 

By Dan Patterson 

Book Reviews 32 

Cox’er by jack Strixiger 

NOTICE OF ENTRY: Acceptance for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 110.^, 

Act of October 3, 1917. Authorized December 4, 1924. “ Entered as second-class mail maner at the 
Post Office at Durham, N. C. 

Published quarterly January, March, May, and November by the students of Duke University. 

The publication of articles on controversial topics does not necessarily mean that the Editor or the Uni¬ 
versity endorses them. The names and descriptions of all characters in the fiction of this magazine are 
fictitious. Any resemblance to any person or persons is not intended and is purely coincidental. 

Copyright, November 1948, by Loring B Walton, Jr. 



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Frost, Joyce, and Jones 

Recently our co-ed editor, Ginny 
Jones, visited her uncle, Clifford 
Lyons, in Chapel Hill where he 
teaches in the Ihiiversity. It just so 
happened that Robert Frost was vis¬ 
iting Dr. Lyons lor the weekend. 

“On finding that Robert Frost and 
I were going to be in the same 
house,” says Ginny, “I promptly ran 
to the library and read a book of 
his poems, hoping to seem intellect¬ 
ual when 1 talked to him.” 

Whether or not Ginny im]>ressed 
Mr. Frost we don’t know. But he im¬ 
pressed her. 

Wffiile cooking his breakfast egg, 
Ginny learned from Frost how to 
train a dog to say off the table. That 
was fine, but in keeping with her in¬ 
tellectual aspirations Ginny finally 
ventured to ask him his ojjinions on 
poetry—particularly modern forms. 

“free verse,” said Mr. Frost, “is 
like playing tennis without a net. No 
structure. No way to .score yourself.” 

Whtfi her foot in the door of learn¬ 
ing, Ginny continued to bombard 
the famous poet with weighty cjues- 
tions. She happened to be reatling 
Ulysses for a course at the time and 
was having trouble enjoying the 
book because of its obscurity. 

What about it, .Mr. Frost? 

“\Vell,” the poet answered, “Ulys- 

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s(‘s IS interesting, very mteresiing, 
aiul well constructecl, but unless you 
write so that people can uiulerstand, 
you lose a certain spontaneity in the 
eujoyiuetu ol literature.” (Frost 
looked at the fire in the fireplace.) 
"It’s like people watching a golf 
game who've never seen one and 
can’t uiKlerstand it—golf, incidental¬ 
ly, is an old lady’s game.” 

Very Particular 

We hope temperament isn’t catch¬ 
ing. Cornelia Otis Skinner, well 
known writer and also Student For¬ 
um import on October 27, refused 
to speak publicly without a rug, 
beige backdrop, overstuffed chair, 
dining-room chair, and an end table 
on the stage. She also stated implicit¬ 
ly that she did not want a reception 
afterwards. The Student F o r u m 
should have told her who was pay¬ 
ing who and for what. All little Max 
Schulman needed was a bottle of 

Also on the Forum series is drama 
critic John Mason Brown, who al¬ 
ways puts on a good show'. He is 
fond of “vomitous and vile phrases” 
and speaks of Man as a “biological 
smeer.” He often lectures in paint- 
smeered khaki pants, T-shirt, and 
sports coat. Again: Student Forum 
had better warn him to bring a tie. 

Sandburg’s Solid “Rock” 

Speaking of celebrities, Carl Sand¬ 
burg wrote part of his new book, 
Remernbrunce Rock, in an upstairs 
bedroom of freshman Jo Anne 
Beachley’s home. It seems that while 
he was on a lecture tour at Havre-de- 
Grace his meditations were disturbed 
by a riotous party in the next hotel 
room. This upset him greatly so he 
took his manuscript and guitar over 
to Beachley’s. She tells us he has a 
Lincoln-like air—shabby and rustic. 
Now they can say, “Sandburg slept 

5000 Backseat Drivers 

Every year it happens. 

A head peeks in the door of Q-OlO 
and ask.s—though it usually sounds 
more like a statement of disbelief— 
“Is this the Archivk office?” 

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Now this might be a writer with 
a good short story in liis hand, or an 
artist with some sample drawings 
that would make Rembrandt blush 
with shame—but, alas, he never is. 

.After being assured that he’s come 
to the right place, he usually divulges 
some startling iiiformation: 

“I used to be editor of my high- 
school literary magazine.” 

You try to look interested but it 
seems you’ve heard that story a few 
i times before. 

j And what can he do? If you ask 
I him, there’s nothing he can’t do— 
poetry, short stories, articles, book 
reviews. . . . 

Of course, he hastens to exj^lain, 
he only wrote poetry when he was in 
I high school, not any more. That’s kid 
^ stuff. He’s got a whole pile of old 
stories though—all unprintable. And 
at the present time, he says, he’s just 
i dry on any ideas for article.s—and 

1 naturally college life is much too 
busy to allow him time to read any 
outside books. 

Even if Fresintian English convinced 
yon that yon can’t write — We’d like 
to examine yonr abilities anew. 


• Personal essays 
• Short stories 
• Book reviews 
• Articles 
• Poems 


What’s he doing in Q-OlO then? 
you wonder. 

It’s simple enough. He wants to be 
an editor. 

He wants to read some of the copy 
that comes in (and how little there 
is) and decide whether or not it’s 
good enough to print. Or maybe — 
though he won’t admit it — he just 
wants to hang around the Row. 

You sigh and take down his name. 
Maybe in a few years the Muse will 
bite him — and you can’t take 

The point of all this is the fact 
that the Archivk is pitifully depend¬ 
ent on a student body which seems 

For Many Years 





Mcnil)or Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation 


antagonistic towards it almost by 
tradition. .\n\onc is willing (be¬ 
cause it's so easy in most cases) to 
sa\ whether a story is good or not— 
even it he doesn’t know why—but 
very iew are willing to try to write 
one themselves. 

Even Old Nassau 

.\propos ol the above, we recently 
received a letter trom the editor ot 
Princeton’s Xossou Lit, one of the 
oklest all-stndent literary quarterlies 
in the country (lonnded 1842) . 

Speaking of the present state of 
serious college publications, he 
wrote; “It seems that the popularity 
of the literary magazine has fallen 
in recent years, and we are most anx¬ 
ious to restore it to its former stand¬ 

Needless to say, he took the words 
right out of our mouth. 

103 vs. 109 

If yon happen to be w'aiting for 
a bus around three o’clock on East 
Wednesdays or Fridays yon will 
probably see fifteen or so manuscript- 
and cookie-laden students disappear 
within the walls of East Duke. They 
are the embryo writers who compose 
Dr. Blackburn’s elementary creative 
writing class. 

Judging from the first sketches of 
these students, it seems evident that 
we may expect much from them in 
the future. 

Actually, the 109 advanced class 
should be the group to look to since 
they are more experienced, having 
already had 103 and 104. But some¬ 
how, this year, the “advanced” stu¬ 
dents seem to have lost their creative 
urge; and instead of pounding away 
eagerly at the 12,000-word require- 
(Continued on Page 39) 

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Bs Dan Pattkrson 

Though stiulents in music here 
are gratelul that the aesthetics 
courses are now being taugiit with 
improved facilities in Asbury Build¬ 
ing, the gratitude is grudging. I'hey 
remember too well the impossible 
conditions under which the music 
faculty and students have worked for 
so long in the past. If similar con¬ 
ditions had existed in, for example, 
the zoology department, lectures 
woidd have been inadecpiately sup¬ 
ported by illustrative charts and lan¬ 
tern slides, laboratory jtractice for 
students woidd have been impos¬ 
sible, and there could have been 
only courses treating the most gen¬ 
eral and elementary principles of 
the science. Duke Ehiiversity would 
have had as few students majoring 
in zoology as it has majoring in mu¬ 

The Bad Old Days 
rhis comparison is not a wild¬ 
eyed exaggeration. For illustrating 
lectures on musical history, only 
symphonic literature has been even 
reasonably represented in the library 
ol recordings. Of several whole 
.schools and styles ol ojiera the li¬ 
brary has had only a single or 
so, and the art-song collection could 
be recited in one breath. Piano 
music—well, not a (ihopin polonaise, 
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VOL. 62 NO. 1 

Young Writers 

In the past feiu years it seems to have become habitual among 
critics to worry about what young writers are writing. Such eminent 
observers of the contemporary literary scene as Mr. Bernard DeVoto, Mrs. Diajia Trilling, and Mr. J. Donald 
Adams have all expressed concern for the prevailing attiudes of despair among young luriters. William Styron, 
though he agrees that his outlook might su0er from a lack of objectivity, believes that things are not so bad as 
they might seem. Mr. Styron, a Duke graduate last year, now lives in Durham and is ivriting a novel for Crown 
Publishers under the editorship of Hiram Haydn, author of the novel The Time is Noon and Editor of The 
Portable Elizabethan Reader. 



R ECiENTLY I had the opjiortnnity to read, in a 
magazine for young ladies called Junior Bazaar, 
an article by Mrs. Diana Trilling entitled 
“What .4hoiit Writers Under Twenty Edve?’’ The 
burden of Mrs. Trilling’s complaint, in this ecpiivocal 
and none too conclusive essay, is that there seems to be 
no “crucial’’ difference between the new^ writing which 
has emerged from the last war ami that of our older 
waiters w’ho began their work during and after WMrld 
War I — Hemingway, E'aulkner, Dos I’assos, et al. 
“One searches in vain,” writes Mrs. Trilling, “through, 
say the novels by writers under twenty-five for any 
sign of a fresh point of view jreculiar to this generation 
that came of age during the critical war years. Wdiat 
one finds, instead, are simply new' statements of the 
same attitudes that have been dominant in the fiction 
of whatever age group for some time now.” 

From this point — after a despairing look at four or 
five of the most recent atempts at serious fiction by 
young writers — Mrs. d rilling goes on to say that it is 
not preicsely innox'ation she has been looking for in 
new writing hut, instead, renovation, a term which 
she apparently considers self-explanatory and self-evi¬ 
dent, for she doesn’t bother to elaborate on the 

meaning. All Mrs. Trilling finds in most fiction today 
are, “the atomization of the individual, the sense of 
horror and decay and hopelessness, the primacy of 
self-pity, the .sense of the paralysis of w ill . . . and this is 
why 1 keep looking to the newest generation of writers 
to give us scrniething new, to give us a hope for the 
future instead of the premonitions of doom!” 

Now Mrs. I’rilling is (piite properly correct, it 
seems to me, in lamenting the (piality of the greatest 
part of recent fiction by young writers, and I heartily 
concur in her appraisal of at least three of the new 
books—those ones that I have read. Hut the premise 
from which she makes her evaluation is faulty, it seems 
to me, and that is something 1 shall take up in a 
moment. ,\t the present, trying to lie objective, let’s 
take a lirief look at these new' hooks. 

I'ruman Uapote’s Other Voices, Other Rooms is a 
tenuous story of horror and homosexuality in the Deep 
.South, given considerable appeal and a curious charm 
through highly original, if often rather precious, gifts 
of style, ft is clever, Ireipiently preceptive, and not 
lacking in humor. Hut there’s really not nuuh there, 
after all, not nutcli said, and we can’t feel a whole 
lot of sympathy for (iapote's listless young hero. It’s 




ail like a heautilul s^lohc ol l)ul)hk' gum—stick a i)in in 
it and it expiic's in a taint pink gasp. Style, as Mrs. 
l i illing WDuld he the lirst to point out, is not enough. 

1 hen there is The C.itx (iiid the THUir by (iore 
I dt:l. .mother doeninent in the growing literature ol 
h*iniose\u.ilit\. a hocl\ ol literatuie tvhieh seems to 
h.i\e burgeoned so in recent vears that it has led the 
eminent critic. Mr. Hernard de X’oto. to cast jannclieecl 
and mistru>tlid eves in the direction ol practically all 
\oung male writers. Xhdal’s hook rattles like a bag ol 
sticks, and as with the boy in Cia|)c)te’s novel the 
apath\ we leel towaicl the spineless young man whose 
unrecpiited lo\e is the burden ol the story makes us 
regret even more the lack-luster style and the un- 
consc ionablv melodramatic ending. I have not read 
Mr. X idal's other books, which were apparently well 
received, but in this book, certainly, mere honesty, 
either, is not enough. 

Mrs. 'rrilling's article was jjidilished belore Nor¬ 
man Mailer’s The Xahed and the Dead reached the 
public and so, ol course, it woidcl be unlair to discuss 
that book at length here. In a way Mailer’s novel is a 
remarkable and powerlul achievement, certainly the 
best iKivel to come out ol World War II and in its 
raw recreation ol the sheer physical anguish ol war 
prcjbablv unecpialecl by any modern work ol fiction. 
Hut to go along lor the moment with Mrs. Trilling 
1 will have to admit that “the atomization ol the in- 
tlivitluar' is here in abundance, and certainly “the 
sense ol the paralysis ol will.” ,\ntl without w^anting 
tci ajjpear jjresumptuous I would stispect that Mrs. 
Trilling's final reaction to this powerlul novel is much 
in the same nature, morally, as that to the books by 
(iapote and X'iclal. Fcjr—and this is not a criticism, 
but f^nly a statement ol fact— The Naked and the 
Dead, with all ol its brilliance, with all cjl its impact, 
gives us little “lujjje Icjr the luture.” 

The last book that both Mrs. Trilling and I have 
read is (ialcler Willingham’s End as a Man. I am not 
possessed ol that occnlt power that leads certain critics 
—like .Mrs. d rilling, in ccjnnecticjn with this novel— 
to read into an authc;r’.s intentiems “the sense that Mr. 
\\ illingham is grcjping a u.selul perceptiejn (A the recip 
rocal process at work between the intlividnal and his 
society,” but I do think that End as a Man is cjiie ol 
the most depressing chronicles ol institutional life ever 
written, or read, (furiously enough, (A the three books 
mentioned, this is the one that Mrs. Trilling—al¬ 
though she does not wholly apjjrove ol the author’s 
method—-thinks the most promising, and one that I 
think the most indifferent. Here .Mr. Willingham 

con Id take les.sons from Mr. Capote; the outrages he 
directs at a harmlid system might have been made 
more moving and ellective in a style less banal and 
strident, throtigh an apprehension of the external 
world which is applied by Capote—lor the moment, 
at least—almost in excess. As it is, after Mr. Willing¬ 
ham’s flat and monotonous prose, the object of his 
anger—the military school, and the system as personi¬ 
fied by its commandant—has gained far more respect 
from the reader than those w'arped urchins whose 
obscenities and chronic perversions have been exposed 
with labored and loving regard. 

^J^O, ANGER, or style, or honesty is not enough. 
There are alw'ays those elusive other ingredients: toil, 
talent, compassion, who knows? Writing is. Lord 
knows, a difficult enough task and all the components 
ol its successltil execution will perhaps remain forever 
hidden to the reader and critic, even to those grave and 
resotirceltil psychologists whoes delight is to poke and 
pry about among the workings of imagination, and 
into the other people’s business. A writer, like any¬ 
one else, has to w'orry about his digestion and the 
care and leeding ol babies, and the bill from the den¬ 
tist. And, if he is still young, as young as the writers 
M rs. Trilling has exposed to her formidable scrutiny, 
he is, if he is honest, full of all sorts of doubts concern¬ 
ing his own adequacy and understanding, merely be¬ 
cause he knows he hasn’t lived long or seen much. 
Perhaps he achieves early recognition, which is some¬ 
times unfortunate, but more likely he struggles, like 
Balzac, through years of mediocrity, ev'en incompe¬ 
tence, before reaching his goal. Honesty and style 
and anger are not enough, even if we could find all 
three in a single author. And yet while it is fair 
enough to castigate a novel, even by a writer under 
tw'enty-five, for its shortcomings, as I have done, it is 
most certainly not fair or even quite sensible to sniff 
at a youthful effort with the infinitely weary air of 
condescension that is sooner or later adopted by the 
critic more bright, more brittle, and demanding, and 
to voice, in the manner of Mrs. Trilling, a wistful 
yearning for a brand-new moral and intellectual view'- 
point—the very universal lack of which is sure enough 
proof of its unavailability to the talents and craft of 
a young novelist. No, with all their faults and all 
their limitations the new novels by the writers I have 
named indicate, despite Mrs. Trilling, interesting po¬ 
tentialities; though anger and style and honesty are 
not enough, it is true, each is a quality which—cer¬ 
tainly in folks of less than tw'enty-five—promises better 




things to come. And Mrs. Trilling, I’m afraid, with 
all of her circumlocution and the vague business about 
“renovation,” is merely expressing the desire for an 
easy optimism. 

It has always disturbed me faintly to hear a critic 
say, “Well, dear me now, what are the young people 
going to write about now that this war is over?” It 
seems to be a sense of overjjowering concern that is, 
paradoxically enough, coldly indifferent. I have the 
sense of some whimsical and, I think, epicene creature 
safe within its cool retreat of cool appraisal, murmur¬ 
ing coolly, archly: “Well, Heavens, I do hope they 
change their viewpoint. All this old gloom . . . Dear 
me, how very tiresome.” Say what you will, to be a 
critic is very decent, but not nearly so hard as to be 
a writer. Seriously, however, it is not too difficult for 
the discerning follower of contemporary literary trends 
to side in part with the critic who revolts against a 
literature devoted to the exploitation of horror, self- 
pity, and despair. Perhaps it is natural to want a 
change, if only for novelty’s sake, from the self-con¬ 
scious attitudes of futility of the Twenties, and the 
melancholy proletarian tracts of the Thirties. And 
yet one wonders if the honestly motivated desires of 
Mrs. Trilling and others arise not so much from the 
revulsion against prevailing literary patterns of dark¬ 
ness and despair, as from a lack of perspective. 

Self-pity, decay, hopelessness—in short, horror for 
horror’s sake—have never, it is true, attained the 
stature of the greatest art, even in the hands of men 

of certain poetic vision—John Webster, Poe, Faulkner 
of Sanctuary; yet all great art, it seems, has been born 
of a pessimistic view of life, brought often out of 
perilous times such as ours, and out of suffering. “The 
greatest tradition of art,” says Mrs. Trilling, “teaches 
us that life is nourished only by the hope of life.” This 
is certaiidy true, yet one is impatient and childishly 
lacking in a sense of the spiritual bond that ties us 
to our ancestors—terribly lacking in a sense of historv 
—to think that the great art of Euripides and Dante 
and Shakespeare, though nurturing hope, did not 
proceed through infinite despair, or was founded upon 
a grief more poignant than our own. 

Mrs. Trilling does not insist that in our culture 
nobody shoidd be a writer who isn’t a genius, “who 
hasn’t the power to beat a wonderful new path out 
of the wilderness,” yet there are geniuses around for 
sure—even under twenty-five—and they have the abil¬ 
ity to create noble characters and memorable scenes. 
Let us wait around for them. One woidd rather have 
them know what horror and decay and hopelessness 
are than to have them turn toward an early gratuitous 
optimism. Then perhaps we’ll find another Hamlet 
—along with all of the paralysis of will—and a good 
measure of hope, too. Time does not wreak such im¬ 
mediate changes that we shoidd differ so from the an¬ 
cients, much less from the generation of thirty years 
ago; what sorrows the Guelphs anti Cfreeks felt, we feel, 
too, and also the delights. The will to hope does not 
fade or falter. Abide, Mrs. Trilling, abitle. 



A MIDST the rosy reflections 
Of the cherry blossoms 
Is my face, calm and serene. 
How lovely are the blossoms; 

Each lovely l)loom 

Is reprotluced in tlelicate perfection 

In the water-mirror of the well. 

It is the picture of peace. 

1 rantpiility. 

.\nd then— 
blossom falls. 

Shattering the glassy surface; 

.\nd my face and the flowers 

,\re twisted into a grotestpie pattern. 







EON is one ol 
ihe lew people 
who has reali/ed her am- 
bition — which is to do 
exactly M-hat she is doing 
now. .Not only that but she has a “general liking lor 
almost c\cr\ thing and everybody.” Not counting ob¬ 
scure language and dangling particijrles. 

I nfortnnatcly she doesn’t like to talk about her- 
sell or her poetry. She says that her verses always 
worry her when she sees them in jrrint, but obviously 
her jrnblishers don't leel the same way. Her present 
schednle includes teaching Contemporary Poetry, Rep¬ 
resentative Writers, and Ereshman English three days 
of the week and sitting beside a typewriter on Mon- 
das, Wednesday, and Eriday working on another book 
ol verses to be jmblished by Houghton MiHlin. She 
conlesses that teaching is her favorite occupation. 

I o go back a lew years, .Mrs. Bevington was born 
in Lpstate New ^'ork in a .Methodist parsonage. She 
graduated from the I'niversity of Chicago with an 
English major and went on to Columbia Ebiiversity 
to graduate school where she studied Eighteenth- 
century and .\merican literature. She spent one com¬ 
plete winter there reading twenty volumes of Thoreau, 
whej is still cme of her favorites. 

Cue day she sat next tej .Mr. Jfevington in a Com¬ 
parative Literature class and her habit of careful note¬ 
taking cjuickly went to pieces. Their first date, that 
night, was a ride to jersey and back on the 125th 
Street Eerry. 'f hey were married in the Columbia 
Chapel a year and a half later and went to live in a 
twfj-rcKJin ajjartment in the Village. 

“I kept my own name as a good feminist but aban¬ 
doned the plan alter about a year 1 liked my 

husband’s name better than mine and, anyway, people 
wouldn’t remember.” She also had to pay fifty cents 
to have her name changed to Helen Bevington on all 
the records at Columbia. 

She worked as Assistant Editor of the Journal of 
Biological Chemistry, but cpiit after one year to take 
a trip around the world with Mr. Bevington. They 
returned withotit a cent just as the stock market 
crashed and the depression began. 

“We liked going around the world so well that 
we planned to go every year or so, around and around. 
Of all possible jrlaces I’d like best to be on a ship, with 
nothing to do and nowhere to go.” But we took up 
hotisekeeping near Columbia, returned to graduate 
schocrl, and began teaching that fall—Mr. Bevington 
in New York University and I in a private preparatory 
school, Bedford Academy.” 


N 1931 she began a five-year sojtirn as housewife 
six weeks before her son David was born. Phillip came 
two years later. When they started the first grade and 
nursery school, she went back to reading books. She 
and Mr, Bevington had spent most of that summer 
in the British Afuseum in London, and life in a library 
seemed so pleasant that she got a job as director of one 
of the small libraries at New York University. This 
was when she first began to write verse, mostly just to 
keep herself awake after lunch. Her lirst poem was 
published in Eranklin P. Adams’ “Conning Tower” 
in the New York Herald Tribune. 

“After a total of sixteen years in New York, we 
moved to North Carolina in 1942. Mr. Bevington 
taught at Duke. We lived in a hotise for the first time, 
a white frame house with a Judas tree in the yard and 
a family named Love next door. 1 spent the first year 

.Marcia Norcross, one of our associate editors, has written profiles for the Ar¬ 
chive, the 1) and 13, and the Chronicle besides turning out a short story now and 
then. She is a senior from Tampa, Florida, and is president of Chi Delta Phi. 




writing verse, mostly aljout }udas trees and proiessors 
and a neighbor named Mr. Love.” 

Mrs. Bevington is still being cpiestioned about a 
poem called “Academic Roll Call” which describes 
tour different professors—the pedant, the prima 
donna, the stnfled shirt, and the teacher. Everyone 
has his own idea about whom she had in mind, but she 
insists that these poems w'ere written about prolessors 
she knew at Columbia and that any similarity to Duke 
professors is entirely coincidental. 

fn 1945 ffoughton Mifflin offered her a contract 
to pidilish a volume of light verse which ajjpeared as 
Dr. Johnson’s Waterfall and Other Poems. .\t the 
same time her verses began to be printed in the New 
Yorker (nearly 10 poems to date), the Atlantic 

Monthly, and subsecjuently in the American Scholar, 
the Saturday Reuiew of Literature and the Oeorgia 
Remeiv. She says she has no favorite poems of her 

Afrs. Bevington started teaching at Duke in the 
English Dejrartment as an instructor and later became 
an assistant professor. She likes every student she 
ever taught and remembers them all. She even asks 
her students to send her post cards in five years to tell 
her what they are doing. 

To sum things up she says, “We now live five miles 
out in the country on Guess Road, Route 2. Davitl 
is a freshman at Harvard and Phillip is at Phillips 
Exeter. We have got two Judas trees now and a 




O N CAMI’USES remote and shaded 
You find the pedant. 

Dry and faded. 

Who, once mistaking books 
For bread. 

By incunabtda is led. 

H is mind is recondite 
But tidy. 

Arranged for Monday’s class through Friday 
With data 

Learned and congealed 
On the minutiae of his field. 

An academic look has he. 

Dear God, 

Preserve the factdtv! 

Prima Donna 

He scintillates. 

He gives off sparks 

And some say perfume. His remarks 

Bring students tumbling to his classes, 

Inebriate and dazed 

Iti masses. 

To hear with laudable emotion 
But what. 

Nobody has a notion. 

So fine a turn deserves a stage, 

.And proper fame 
(.And better wage) . 

Stuffed Shirt 
I*omposity upon a seat 
Of learning 
Gives a solemn bleat. 

Confers with God. 

Considts a note. 

And elegantly clears his throat 
To month, with piety, what chance 

Has least significance. 

A'et words of wistlom, 

I^ove, or wit 

He tvould make dull and ex(|uisite. 


He rides no hobbyhorse. 

No wreath 

Of laurel does he trot beneath. 

One of the jiassionate 
Eeiv, the kind 

Of scholar with a humble mind 
Who, lacking histrionic bent. 

Not dusty answers from a shelf. 

He teaches who has taught himself. 

Who saw a star 

.\nd hitched his cart. 

W’ith him gay comjjanics depart, 
.\nd by this little stratagem 
He makes stargazers 
Out of them. 





A BRIGHT two-o'clock moon shone down on a 
dark fast-rvinning figure whose Ijreath yon 
could have heard if you had stood there beside 
the dirt street and listened. The clear sky above was 
free from clouds and the stars strove hard to show 
through a radiance of moonlight which filled the sky. 
The heavy breath of the running man and the sweaty 
face were incongruous in the clearness, as though he 
had come in from another, more real, world. He ran 
by the low dark houses of the street where no light 
was visible. The one white house on the street seemed 
to be a gleaming ghost among fallen dark angels. 

He ran breathlessly uj> the hill by the low dark 
houses. The scuffling of his feet was muffled against 
the aged wood of the old and unpainted houses lin¬ 
ing the street very clrrse to it. The rushing of the 
scuffling feet slacked somewhat before a familiar piece¬ 
meal fence, whose pickets leaned at crazy angles along 
the edge ol the yard. As the speed slacked, he jumped 
over the lence and bounded onto the porch a few 
feet away, ignoring two rotting wood steps. With a 
violent push he ripened the door and ran through, 
leaving the door ajar. W'ithout pausing he went into 
an adjoir)ing room and paused only to light a match, 
casting a light over the room. The .scraping of a 

wooden drawer was the oidy unnatural noise. 

James? James Day. ’S that you? 

There was no answer to the question and none 
seemed necessary. The candle made the sweaty 
brown hands shine as they rummaged through the 
unkept drawers. Suddenly the hands grasped a black 
object of metal from the depths of the drawer and 
the figure turned toward the door by which he had 

James. What you doing? 

Motionless he still did not answer. He faced the 
whiteclad figure standing in the door there in his 

Where you going with that gun? 

Starting toward her he stopped close to her, star¬ 
ing at her, whose body could only be supposed be¬ 
hind the whiteness of a nightgown, visible from 
moonlight which filtered through narrow windows. 

I’m going. Mama. 

With a last fixed stare he brushed by her and 
through the doorway and on out of the house, leap¬ 
ing to the ground where it was packed hard so that 
his descent made a thud. When he reached the hard- 
packed street the regular pounding of his running 
feet faded gently as he moved away from the house. 

OuAY Grigg lists Syhta, N. C., as his hornetoiun. This is his second appearance in 
the .\rghivk, the first being another story, “The difl,” which ivas published in 
the March I94H issue. He is an English major and will graduate this June. 



QUAY (;rigg 

Out of sight in the heavy moonshadow of huge 
oaks which clustered at the end of the street, Janies 
Day stopped to look back unseen toward the house 
he had just left, a hundred feet away. The white-clad 
figure emerged from the door as he turnetl to look 
and came out into the tiny front yard where the strong 
brittle moonlight beat down and made a ghostly day¬ 
light. She looked, dazed, toward the shadows where 
the man had disappeared. I’he world was full silent 
between them. 

In the shadow of the oaks wdiere the woods began 
at the end of the street, James Day tensed suddenly 
as a breeze of the July night bore on it distant fury 
and commotion. Although it was merely the sug¬ 
gestion of a .sound, it was enough to give assurance 
and affirmation that the sounds were there. When 
the breeze had left, dead silence remained. The two 
figures formed a tableau, the one standing etched 
quietly in sharp moonlight and the other scarcely 
distinguishable in the shadow. 

As the distant .sounds came closer both figures 
riveted their attention on them as though hypnotized. 
Raucus motors could be heard grinding together, out 
of harmony with each other in the stillness of the 
night. They noticed that the glare from reflected 
headlights could be seen in the sky. Occasionally a 
horn coidd be heard. 

The approaching roar was a terribly businesslike 
noise. The sudden eruption of the commotion into 
an immediate force broke the spell on James Day in 
the shadows anti he relaxed as if just awakened. He 
no longer noticed the figure in the front yard of his 
house, a huntlred feet away, but he turned tpiickly 
and jumped the ditch beside him intt) a mass 
of honeysuckle more than a foot high. few feet 
from the edge of the mass he fell into it ami buried 
him.self. With his arms he arrangetl the honeysuckle 
vines so that he hatl a clear view of the house and 
street and the growing glare, which flared in the sky 
close by. 

All of a sudden the sharp clearness of the moon¬ 
light was broken by beams of headlights and their 
reflections on the dust which began to rise behind the 
cars. Following closely on one another the cars were 
noisy. The street seemed to become alive with the 
movement of the cars as they turned into the street a 
block away and came toward the blind street at the 
end of which James Day was hidden in the honey¬ 
suckle. In the front yard of the house the ghostly 
figure still stood and stared. 

.\s the cars arrived in front of the house they began 
to stop and men jumjted from them. The other cars 

arrived and screeched to a stop and men climbed from 
those, too. 

Hey, there’s the old nigger. 

He’s been here all right. 

He might be in the house. 

'Fhe men leaped over the fence, following closely 
the steps James Day had made as he entered the yard 
and house. Like bloodhounds they followetl. 

H ey, you! Where’s that nigger? 

Where is he? 

She stood in astonishment and did not answer. 

I’he last cars came and there .seemed to be a dozen 
or more in all, lined up crazily in the street. 

I'hat’s Lomie, all right. She used to work over 
at our place. Never thought a boy of hers would 
come to this. 

You heard us. VVdiere is he? \Vhich way did he 
go? We know he’s been here. Where is he? 

Lome on. Out with it. 

Jim, you look in the house. 

One man left the group and went into the house 
by the frotit door. 

What’s the matter with you? ^'ou asleej) or some¬ 
thing? Got a hole in your head? 

She still made no answer, but looked at them 

These .stiq)id niggers don’t know their ass fiom a 
hole in the ground. 

The crowd had grown to about twenty men, all 
standing in a throbbing little groiqj around the front 

All right. We’ve had enough stalling. Wheie 
is the boy? 

W'hen he was not answered, he slapjted her across 
the face with his big white hand. .\nd again. 

Not a sign of him in the house. Looks like he 
might have been rummaging ttround in some chests. 

Gonsicleiing a new plan of action they stood still. 
Some of them looked toward the big man standing in 
front of the negro woman. 

Bill sure does know how to htuulle niggers. 

WA'Il, he ought to. He’s had ’em woiking lot him 
all his life clowti at the brickyard. 

Well, boys, if she won’t tell us where he is, we’ll just 
spread out and look for him. 1 know he’s been here 
or she wouldn’t be standing out here. It couldn't 
have been long ago he was in town until 
fifteen minutes ago. 

Well, boys? 

.Several spotlights began to play around the hotise 
as the twenty men began to look for James Dav. He 
watched them from his hiding place in the honeysuc kle 




■IN (lu\ in c.iis .iiul turiK'd spoiliglus to and Iro. 
Oiui' in .1 while nno iniiuxl U)\\ard the li'ccs and 
wi)(k 1> at tlic eiul nt tlio street momentarily then it 
tin iieil h.ii k I loset. ( ai)m hing there, he watched 


I\ nil- jihostK lii;ht ami darkness he eonld leel 
the honesMiekle aronml him (jiiiver as his heart heat. 
When a spotlight tnrnetl toward him, he could see 
it ^hake. The light maile the perspiration which ran 
slowK (.lown his lace shine and glow like small jewels. 
1 he moonlight iliil not show tip that ellect so much 
.is did the spotlights. Occasionally, with increasing 
rapiilitv. a chill wonkl settle over him and he w'onld 
shake \iolentlv ami the honeysuckle which hid him 
wonkl shake. .\nd then lor a minute he would lie 
(]nietlv. exhausted and tense. The chills began to 
return more lret|nently and soon he shook almost 

He lay there and watched them. He heard them 
talk and yell. He stared at them as though they 
were monsters Irom another jjlanet come to rob and 
steal and hunt lor those who lived here. Their 
flashlights pried into crevices and vulgarly exposed the 
deejjest secrets ol the house to their eyes. 

.\s they searched they began to be satisfied that 
he was not there. Farther and farther from the house 
they roamed, looking and shining their flashlights 
like eyes. As they spread he shook even more often 
and the honeysuckle quivered even more often. Some¬ 
times a tremor shook him from head to toe, going like 
a wave across him. He began to sipiirm and waggle in 
the \ines and persj)iration soaked him all over. He 
could feel the drops as they rolled, slowly at first, then 
faster, down his sides from his back. Behind his eyes 
his mind jumped fast around in mad fear of capture. 
He began to inch backward wdth his toes, drawing 
himself slowly, dreadfully slowly, too slowly. That 
was not escape fast enough. In his mind he tried to 
find courage to jump and run away, across the honey¬ 
suckle and into the woods behind a tree wdiere no eye 
could .see him. Fver so maddeningly slowly he inched 
backward frejm the men who advanced as slcjwly 
tc^ward him. 

Fhe flashlights began to draw together again in 
fremt of the house. .\s they moved toward a central 
spot they flickered out like fireflies who come together 
and fold their wings to sit. 

Well, boys? 

Ixt’s get him. 

If tve don’t get him we might as wxll turn the 
town over tc^ them. You gotta show ’em what you’ll 
do if you catch another one. Niggers don’t have no 

No, niggers don’t have no sense. 

1 tell you. He’s bound not to be far from here 
since he isn’t around the house. Let’s spread out 
through the woods and get him. He can’t be far in 
this short time. 

Damn good idea. 

Yeah. VVT’ll find the son of a bitch. 

Has he got a gun? Hey you. I say, the boy got 
a gun? 

They prod the fixed w'oman in the ribs. 

The boy got a gun? 

Yes, she nods. 

Well, boys, look out so he won’t shoot back. Don’t 
be too careful yourself if you get a chance to shoot. 
He’s probably got a knife, too. They always do. 

They stood for a moment as if in preparation for 
moving off on a mission. Some of them turned and 
flashed their lights around. 

Hey. What’s that? 

There’s the son of a bitch. 


Going toward the woods. Come on! 

The flashlights clicked on and searched for James 
Day as he ran toward the forest. One caught him 
just as he vanished among the trees. 

The pounding of their feet could be heard until 
they had crossed over onto the grass at the end of the 
street. They sounded like a herd of horses, running 
through the dark night. Only the soundless quiet 
and the white-clad figure remained, she standing there 
in the clear moonlight. She looked toward the van¬ 
ished figures and toward the east where clouds had 
started that way. And then she looked at the ground 
and at her feet. 

As James Day dived into the shelter of the shadows 
in the woods, he scurried like a rabbit. In the dark¬ 
ness he stumbled sometimes over fallen trees and 
bushes which stood in his way. Overhead the clouds 
had come fast and were gathering around the moon 
and dancing in slow motion around the moon. Even 
the patches of light in the forest became darker and 
it seemed as if the world were slowly dying away. 

He could hear the men following him as they 
yelled. Shoot. Bastard. Bill. Rape. The big bully. 
He ran on, making slow progress in spite of his great 
efforts because of the difficult terrain. At the edge of 

Illustrated by Jack Stringer 




an open spot he stopped, looking around. Behind 
him he coidd see glimpses of the llashlights which 
strained to see him there in the woods. Ahead of him 
were the darkness of the woods and the barriers of 
nature. He conld hear a neighborhood dog howling 
as though he felt that someone had made a dis¬ 

d'he twigs snapped under James Day’s feet, mak¬ 
ing a terrifying noise in the silence. It seemed to 
him as if the men behind him should be able to hear 
the snapping as well as he. Distance seemed not to 
matter. He started up a hill, pushing his way past 
heavy bushes and small trees. His breath continued 
to come hard, both fiom excitement and from jdiysical 
strain. He ran on. 

He was almost at the top of the hill and approach¬ 
ing the end of the woods. Realizing their protection. 

he began to bear to the left and double back on his 
trail in a wide circle. As he started down the hill 
again on the other side, he came to a small gully 
caused Ity the small stream of water which llowed down 

the center of it. He followed the gully and stream, 
crouching low to be below the line of sight of a lol- 
lower who might be looking that way. He could see 
the lights, still very near to him, as they blinked and 
looked this way and that. 

In the increasing darkness, the hunting men 
stumbled more aiul more into the Itushes and ran 
into trees. Their llashlights seemed to make an even 
more harsh light than at first when the moonlight 
showed their way. 

Look behind tho,se bushes over there. 

Did yoti hear something move behind that tree? 


Look jussa same. 

You’re right. Rabbit. 

I thought so. I’d know a rabbit any time. 

.Silently they wetit on around the bushes and trees. 

I remember once when they had three of ’em at 
the undertaker’s at one time. Lhey sure did learn not 
to mess wdth the Parks family. 


Lhey’ll learn. You got to show ’em. They ain’t 
got no sense about anything. 

Treat ’em like animals. Lhat’s what they’re used 

The .sounds of breaking limbs and underbi ush pre¬ 
ceded them. They beat bushes with sticks and pushed 
them aside. You could sometimes hear the swoosh 
of a small clump of tree .saplings as a big stick beat 
down through them, just in case. 

Hey, 1 hear something moving over there. 

Several of them stopped moving, pointing their 
flashlights in the itulicated direction. Suddenly there 
was no sound in the forest. 

Let’s go see. 

.Might as well. 

He ought to be right about here, d he woods end 
a little farther up. 

Let’s be carefid. 

Stay there if you’re scared. 

.Scared, hell. 

Oh, shut up and come on. 

.Maybe in that gully. 1 remember there’s one along 
here someplace. It's deep enough to get into. 

Look out now. 

Sh. Be cpiiet. Tome on but be (puet. 

Did you hear something? .Sounded like a ro( k 
rolling like he might have stepped on it. 

\'eah. (iome on. 

Well, boys? 

We’re coming, (io on. 

We’ve just al)()ut got him now, fellas. Let’s go. 




noun the siicani tlicN lollowoil liiin, cKcasionally 
i^citiiiv; '^liiiipses liowiistieani as the moonlight is light 
thi n ilai k. 

TP 111 1V\RK shallows eiigiilleil James Day as he 
Ntroile swilth Irom lotk to link in the sutlden bright 
nii^onlight. |iist as snililenh, howe\er, it was taken 
awa\ .mil he was lelt ila/eil in the pitch blackness. He 
.oulil hear the steps ol the men lollowing him as they 
lolloweil theii lights. Looking over his shoulders he 
coidd see their lights rellected on the trees above the 
Miiall Ntream the\ had been lollowing. 

As the men became ilangeronslv close, he lelt the 
urgent neeil lor mo\ement in the darkness. In a 
moment the\ would be upon him. He began to 
juni]) blindh ilown the stream. Rocks rolled pell 
mell as he stumbleil on them. He could hear over 
that noise the increa.sed noise ol his lollowers who 
felt now more sale in moving rapidly since they could 
tell his exact position by the noise of his steps. 

Listen to the bastard run. 

We'll get him now. 

Whew. We'd better get him soon. I'm out of 
breath. \ot useil to chasing niggers through the 
wooils for two hours at a time. 

James Day became tired, exhausted by his efforts. 
His breath came in short jjufts as he jogged on. Every 
stejj was like a punch in the abdomen to him as his 
breathing became more anil more difficult. He could 
teel. almost, the ray of a flashlight as it swept across 

I here he is! See, there. 

Now we've got him. 

James Day ran faster, stumbled and fell into the 
rocks and gurgling water. For a moment he could 
hear only the rolling of the rocks as they settled around 
him. I here was no feeling ol pain, only relaxation, 
as he lay helpless in the little stream among the rocks. 

I he men were on him, almost stumbling over 
him in their rush. 

Well, I'll be damned. that gun! Roll him over. 

With liis return to consciousness, terror filled 
James Day’s soul. His face was jerked around so that 
he looked up, up into the gray clouds which obscured 
the moon. He saw a still larger cloud pass in front of 
the moon so that all was black. Then he could only 
see a powerful light .shined in his face. Again he 
(ould feel his heart beating wildly and his pulse beat¬ 
ing in his wrist. Insanely he tried to sit up, could not. 

Well, we’ve got him now. 

Get up, you goddam nigger. 

He was jerked up and made to stand, as the woods 
and the men and the lights circled madly and refused 
to focus for him. 

1 didn’t do nothing. 

Shut your trap and walk on. Get on. 

Ciome on, nigger. You’ve got something coming 
to you and you’re going to get it. 

Well, boys, it won’t be long now. 

Through the woods they walked again, this time 
very slowly, for they were all tired, though none so 
tired as James Day. He walked on, how’ever, for he 
coidd do nothing else. He w’as listless from ex¬ 
pended effort. He walked on to the light of flashlights 
which made the way clear and easy. They walked on. 

The headlights of the cars made the night as light 
as daytime. The softening sky gradually made the 
automobile lights seem ghostly and chalky as they 
moved along with the cars all in a line. 

Inside the leading car sat James Day between two 
huge men, both dressed in an unclistinguishable kind 
of uniform. In the half-light he closed his eyes and 
sank into a stupor almost immediately from exhaus¬ 
tion and terror. When the car jolted too much he 
would open his eyes wide in madness so that the whites 
seemed like the whites of boiled eggs. And then they 
would close and his body would remain tense as 
though in rigor mortis. 

Through the main street they went but were seen 
by no eyes because the street was deserted at five 
o’clock in the morning. The sky had become a little 
more gray, but it promised no sharp light because 
the grayness came from heavy clouds which obscured 
all direct light. They filtered the light so that it was 
almost palpable. 

At the edge of town the cars slowed, turned in off 
the highway and went through gates covered with 
roses. When they stopped, the cars were in a crooked 

Men got out of each car and stood in the grayness, 
no longer shining their artificial lights but depending 
on the early morning dull light to see. The air was 
almost like a fog obscuring the whiteness of stones 
in the background. Like ghosts they stood in the 
mist. In the moving air they seemed to come and 
mingle with the men standing near their cars. They 
were tense like stone themselves among moving stones 
which .seemed alive, as if things were suddenly in re¬ 
verse, as if stone were alive and men dead. Gray they 
all stood and gray they then moved toward each other 
and stood together. James Day stood, gray, as if in 
a daze which left his black skin as though dead. 




Well, hoys, let’s get this over with. He has it 
coming to him. 

The men stood together, still, in the grayness. Not 
a one moved. 

Who’s going to shoot first? 

Not me. 

Me either. 

Well, we’ll all shoot at once. That’s fair enough. 

Let’s get him over there away from the road. 


In the grayness they pushed James Day along, hut 
he was unconscious of movement and of everything. 
There was a half smile almost distinguishahle on his 
face, as if he were living in some happier jxist or in 
a happier future. 

This is all right. 

All right, hoys, let’s go. I’ll count three, 1—2—3, 
then wee’ll all let go. 

I think I’d better go sit clown. I don’t feel so good. 

Chicken-1 ivered bastard. 

One. There was no sound in the grayness at all, 
either from the white stones or the gray men. Two. 
The only sound was a gutteral clearing of several 
throats, d'hree. 

Only two shots rang out and echoed against the 
white stones. 1 he body of James Day slumped with a 
light thud to the ground and lay there in death. 
Around him stood the men like statues. Some of 
them turned away before the shots and they w'ere still 
turned. A lewv stared didly during the shots, some at 
James Day, some at the smoking guns. 

Slowly they all turned and moved away. Some 
moved faster, through the lighter grayness; there was 
the sound of engines being started and the cjuick driv¬ 
ing away. Most sat for a minute in the cars before 
leaving. No word w'as spoken. Only the white stones 
and the mist remained with the body of James Day 
in Rosemont Cemetery. In the grayness they seemed 
to be all that was left in the world. 



A L0N(; white ribbon stretching ’cross 
The undulating plain, 

A rolling stone across the moss, 

1 take the road again, 

.\ wanderer once, a wanderer e’er— 

'Lite lust is from within. 

Where 1 go I do not care— 

Who knows where I have been? 

.America’s but fifteen days. 

The world but eighty-four, 

Perhaps I’ll stay at a Swiss chalet. 

Perchance the Kohinoor. 

Lhe click of the rails, the hum of the tires. 

The ocean’s gurgling swish, 

I envy the birds — the soaring fliers. 

For speed’s my dearest wish. 

The rush of the .seas, the blur of the land, 
l he breath of the pa.ssing bree/e. 

The earth’s but a seed in the palm of my hand, 
.\11 nature a passionate frie/e. 

,\ wanderer once, a wanderer e’er — 

Lhe lust is from within. 

Where f go I do not tare — 

Who knows where I have been. 

NOVE.MKER, 1948 


A A/T^n T ' F‘'>'z('-i'RALn lived during a time 

XvTil V^J. unlike our ozon. (Even the banjo is 

. /i. ‘uuk.^ .7 great zear had just ended and Anzerica zeas entering into one of the most uziusual periods in its 
s!- ■^•. the Jail Age. lie z'lrtuallx inaugurated the Tzeenties zeith his This Side ol Paradise, and in his novels 
lolloze he portra\ed zeith great artistry the rharacteristies of his time. Fitzgerald’s subject matter zuas perhaps 
t)n> narroze but his sensitiz'ity zeill make his books liz’e. R. D. Loomis, our editor, comes from Ohio and is a 
senior anti an English major. He has a personal liking for Fitzgerald but knozes his faults too. The subject for 
oil- \meiitan Men ol l.eiters Series next issue zeill be Eugene O'Xeill. 

''Let Ale Tell You About The Very Rich,., 


A Critical Survey of F. Scott Fitzgerald 

bv R. D. LOOMIS 


I IS always unloriunate 
when a writer Ijeconies too 
tloselv conneeted with a 
period or school. Such connec¬ 
tions invariably make his work 
seem more narrow and some¬ 
times reduce him to that damn¬ 
ing category—‘ Historically im¬ 

F. Scott Fit/gerald didn’t 
merely rejjort lictionally on the 
I a// .\gt; his was always an at- 
temjit to recreate imaginative¬ 
ly one of the most unusual and 
exciting jjeriods in our history. 

He loved the t wenties but he 
saw their faidts too. His in¬ 
stinct lor the tragic view of life 
was always strong, but he could 
not lully execute it until he 
was hallway through his novel¬ 
writing career. (‘‘All the stories that came into my 
head had a touch ol disaster in them . . . my mil¬ 
lionaires were as beautilul and damned as Thomas 
Hardy’s peasants.”) His high merit as a writer was 
inevitable because he understood things in terms of 
poj>le, situations, and events, and the final note to 
hi\ unfinished novel, 'The Last Tycoon, scrawled in 
large capitals, read: ‘‘A(JTK7X IS CH.XRACnTR.” 

Fit/gerald was born .September 27, 1891), in St. 

F. Scott Fitzgeralu 

Paul, Minnesota. His family 
was not poor but in the private 
school to which he was sent he 
developed an early shame of 
poverty which later colored his 
work until the life of the rich 
became his fable and symbol. 
The margins of his school 
books are filled with the stories 
he was working on when he 
was supposed to be studying. 

He entered Princeton in 
1913 and spent so much time 
writing an operetta in collabo¬ 
ration with Edmund Wilson 
that he failed most of his sub¬ 
jects and had to be tutored all 
summer so that he could enter 
again the next fall. While at 
Princeton he became editor of 
the Nassau IJt and finished the 
first version of This Side of Paradise. 

The first World War interrupted his college and 
he became an aide-de-camp to General A. J. Ryan. 
It didn’t interrupt his writing, how'ever, and on week¬ 
ends he finished another version of This Side of Para¬ 
dise under the title of The Romantic Egotist. It was 

After his discharge in 1919 he took a job as copy 
writer (doing advertisements for the subways) and 




continued, nnsuccessluly, to try to sell his stories. He 
had fallen desperately in love with Zelda Sayre and 
when she refused to marry him because of his poor 
financial status, he rushed home to St. Paul and com¬ 
pleted a third version of his novel—w'hich was en¬ 
thusiastically accepted this time by special delivery. 
Zelda promised to marry him; and Scott, with typical 
exuberance, rode down Fifth Avenue on the top of 
a taxi. 

^H/S Side of Paradise in 1920 made F. Scott Fitz¬ 
gerald famous overnight. It was not a good novel, 
but it was not a bad one either—and it was anvthing 
but dull. Moreover it spoke directly to his generation; 
it showed them how to act and talk, and tore away 
the veil once and for all frotn the face of a new age 
and ushered it in with uncanny timing. (“None of 
the Victorian mothers,” wrote Scott, “—and most of 
the mothers were Victorian—had any idea how casu¬ 
ally their daughters were accustomed to be kissed.”) 

Even by the standards of the day, however, there 
were many things wrong with the book. It was un¬ 
even (probably because of the many versions it had 
suffered) , and Amory Hlaine’s confusion and dejec¬ 
tion in the end w'as completely unmotivated. L.overs 
conduct their affairs by making witty and knowing 
speeches at each other, and there was a bad habit of 
dropping into symbolic fantasy or using the form of 
a play merely for its unusualness. F.P.A. even de¬ 
voted one of his cohunmns to the misspellings found 
in the book. 

But there was much to recommend in This Side 
of Paradise, and the first half coiicerning Princeton 
(aside from a few jjurple passages) was amazingly 
well done. People actualy fell in love with the book— 
and Fitzgerald. After its publication Scott could sell 
almost anything he wrote. “I took the book to bed 
with me,” wrote John O’Hara, “and I still do, which 
is more than 1 can say of any girl I knew in 1920.” 

Now Fitzgerald and Zelda were beginning to lead 
the kind of life they thought they wanted. I’here 
were parties, parties, parties, and often he had to 
work night after night at his writing (mostly short 
stories) to pay for the fun. But he felt it was worth 
it. “Riding in a taxi one afternoon,” he wrote, “be¬ 
tween very tall buildings under a mauve and rosy 
sky ... I began to bawl because I had evervthing I 
wanted and knew I would never be so hap])y again.” 

The Fitzgeralds went to Europe during the sum¬ 
mer of 1921, but returned home for the birth of their 
only child, Frances. 

The Beautiful and Datnyied was published in 
1922, and though not as successful as This Side of 
Paradise it showed a better grasp of the portrayal of 
disaster. But still there appeared to be no adequate 
cause for the characters’ sufferings and they seem only 
pitiful, not tragic. It uses the same mechanics as its 
predecessor, the fantasies, the short plays, the arty 
dialogue; aiul the characters are almost the same— 
especially the girls—but with different names. 

.Scott and Zelda remained abroad, except for a 
few trijrs home, from 1921 to 19.SI. Fitzgerald once 
descril)ed this periotl as “seven years of waste and 
tragedy”—especially the Riviera days. Again there 
seemed to be nothing but parties, and often they 
made private movies, leaving the unprintable titles 
on the pink walls of Clrace Moore’s villa for other 
visitors to .see. 

He continued to write, of course, but looking back 
he saw the weakness of those days; “It was borrowed 
time anyhow—the whole upper tenth of a nation liv¬ 
ing with . . . the casualness of chorus girls. But moral¬ 
izing is easy now and it was pleasant to be in one’s 
twenties in such a certain and unworried time.” 

Foo often k'itzgerald has been tailed a satirist— 
.something which he certaiidy was not. He always 
tried to see things as clearly as possible and to jjortray 
them objectively, heightening effects now and then 
but never exaggerating. 

In comparison with other contemporary writers 
using the same sidjjects, he stantls far above them 
all. Books such as Warner Fabian’s Phuniug Youth 
and Cionrad .Viken’s Parties, both of which were leatl- 
ing bestsellers of the Fwenties, are amazingly inferior 
to anything .Scott ever did. Only Ijy accident did they 
ever penetrate very deeply into the lives of their char¬ 
acters, and rarely, if ever, did they rise above super¬ 
ficial satire and chettp sensationalism. They seemed 
to write for the demand of the moment and never 
realized that they had any responsibility as portrayers 
of an age. 

FH The (heat (iatshy in 1925, Fitzgerald finallv 
com])letcd a novel that was as perfectly exetuted as it 
was concci\ed. Es.sentially it is the story of how Oatsby, 
now very ridi, tries to recapture the love of Daisy, 
who had refused him years before :ind who is now 
married. Essentially, too. it is a story of the .Middle 
W'est (although the scene is Island) l)ecanse 
all of the main charatters have their roots there and 
perhaps “possessed some defuience in common which 
made [them] subtly umidaptable to Eastern life.” 

N()VF.\rBER. 1948 



. (in attempt to recreate imaginatively one of the most exciting periods in our history.” 

I'hc story is loltl in ilie fust person by Nick Carra- 
way. ulio is al)le to do so with oljjectivity yet with 
fi;reat interest. I'it/gerald makes him very real, but 
keeps liim in the main story just lar enough so that 
lie can tell it. Here, too, lor almost the first time, 
I'it/gerald understands the advantage of realizing his 
subject dramatically. 

So (.atsby comes back to tulfill his “incorruptible 
dream.” "I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” Nick tells 
him once, “you can’t repeat the past.” “Can’t repeat 
the jiast?” Ciatsby cries. “W'hy of course you can!” 

lint Gatsby soon learns that “you can’t go home 
again” and there is a .sort of poetic justice tvhen he is 
blamed for the murder Daisy commits. 

“C.atsby believed in the green light,” Fitzgerald 
writes, “the orgastic future that year by year recedes 
belore us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter— 
tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms 
farther . . . .\nd one fine morning— 

“.So we beat on, boats against the current, borne 
back ceaselessly into the jiast.” 

I . S. Eliot called The (ireat (kitshy “the first step 
that .\merican fiction has taken since Henry James.” 

It is Fitzgerald’s short stories that have done more 
than anything else to shatter his reputation. F'ive or 
six ol them are as fine as anything done during the 
last lew decades, especially “.May Day” and “The 
Rich Hoy”: but all too often he wrote simply for 
money and turned out jiotboiler after potboiler. He 
fully realized this and many times wished for some¬ 
thing different: “1 now get 201)0 dollars a story and 

they grow worse and worse and my ambition is to 
get where I neecf write no more but only novels.” 

In 19.S3 he published his fourth and most ambi¬ 
tious novel Tender is the Night. Here are found all 
his powers—more abundant than ever before—com¬ 
plete observation and the sense for significance and 
relationship of every detail, the infallible ear, and 
the wonderful gift of expression. It is the most pow¬ 
erful and moving novel he ever wrote, but it is struc¬ 
turally imperfect; it has a far greater scope than The 
Great Gatsby, but it is not as carefully planned. The 
subject is the spiritual death of a man, and, unfortu¬ 
nately, his confusion in the end becomes the novel’s 
confusion. Fitzgerald rewrote the last part of the 
book but it was never published in that final version. 

Scott had had a light case of tuberculosis in col¬ 
lege and in 1937 he suffered a recurrence. The same 
year he went to Flollywood to write scripts for the 
movies in order to pay off some debts. While there 
he found an excellent subject for another novel which 
was to be called The Last Tycoon. 

In a letter explaining his plans to his publisher 
he wrote: “There’s nothing that worries me in the 
novel, nothing that seems uncertain. Unlike Tender 
is the Night, it is not the story of deterioration—it is 
not depressing and not morbid in spite of the tragic 
ending. If one book could ever be like’ another, I 
should say it is more ‘like’ The Great Cxatsby than 
any of my other books. But I hope it will be entirely 
differetit—I hope it will be something new, arouse new 
emotions, perhaps even a new way of looking at a 

Illustrated by Clarence Brown 




certain phenomena. I have set it safely in a period of 
five years ago to obtain detachment. ... It is an 
escape into a lavish, romantic past that perhaps will 
not come again in our time.” 

Unfortunately The Last Tycoon is only half fin¬ 
ished, but from what there is of it—and that not even 
in completed form—it can be seen that Fitzgerald 
had finally succeeded in combining the structural ex¬ 
cellence of The (treat (kitshy with the power and 
scope of Tender is the Night. Fhere has not been — 
and there probably never wall be — a better exjjose of 
the movie world and its influence on American life. 
It is a penetrating book in which the symbolism is 
inextricably mixed with the actions of its characters. 

On December 21, 1940, the day after he had com¬ 
pleted chapter VI of The Last Tycoon, F. Scott Fitz¬ 
gerald died of a heart attack. 

IN A WAY, Scott’s life was like one of his own 
novels. Always there was the hint of tragedy and the 
forecast of failure. He wrote about the rich because 

he knew them as no other Amreican writer has ever 
known them and because they pointed up the prob¬ 
lem that was always on his mind: the conflict between 
the possibilities of man and his insensitivity. Fitz¬ 
gerald like few' other authors realized that the essence 
of tragedy is not what ha]jpens but what might have 
hapjjened. That is why his own death was as great 
as any tragedy he ever w'lote about. 

John Dos Passos, speaking of what happens to 
writers when they reach middle age, what confuses 
them, etc., said of Fitzgerald: “Of course, in Scott’s 
case the notices weren’t important. Neither was the 
alcohol. He could do without alcohol and did. It 
was something else that held him up for so long. 
VVdiat? 1 don’t know. More than anyone else 1 
know he lived to write. Nothing meant much to him 
excejjt in how it might be translated into words. \ 
taste, a meal, a view was nothing in itself; it became 
important only in what he might make of it in words. 
He had so much, talent that even when he announced 
that he was trying to write a potboiler the talent 
came through unmistakably.” 


The ^Double ^xe 


I UCiKY old man to keep the tiger’s heart, 

'Fhe condor’s vision, the nightingale’s despair! 
(But easier kept in your abraisive tower 
Fhan by most of us who walk the usual tlirt.) 

Yet when did .Vjjollo love you, or you refuse him. 
When did you stand behind the prisoner’s wire? 

Your distance lent enchantment to our war — 

From afar they see clear what nearer would confuse 

.Meanwhile Jeremiah you cry superlluous death 
But your hills kinder than most have a care for man 
To crush him before he cries, and your setting sun 
.\tones with a glory for human ugliness. 

.\nd su])pose in spite of the odds you should be right, 
.\ud all men fools or liars except your.self, 

Fo justify your twenty-volume last laugh, 

'S'our wisdom is only that you will have had it; and, 
il not, in spite. 



S. Sunset 

bv X()R^[AN K. NELSON 

O F W’H A r is the death that descends on the city 
at sunset 

when masonry louvers are black 
against the Avesiern sky. 
and girdered colninns ol steel 
iorm jagged silhouettes 
reared against a low-set dying snn? 

Of Avhat is the pause, the abeyance of life 
that hovers in the city streets 
at sunset 

settling as a mantle of many-folded ciuietness 
on featureless gray pedestrians 
who file homeward along the sidewalks, 
city-dwellers made uneasy and fearful 
by the suspension of color and perspective, 
anxious for the neon-incited resumption of life 
after nightfall? 

Of ^vhat is the melancholy, the regret 

that lies in fading tvindo’tv-scluares, 

in pale up^vard-tilted skylights, 

in thin coils of smoke 

that drift up from factory chimneys, 

and in the faces, disturbed and wan, 

of pedestrians toiling through asphalt ravines 

grown dim, and trellised 

by rays of old and misty sunlight 

threading through chinks in the concrete walls? 

Of what is the sorro^vful death of the city 
at sunset 

a gaunt hollow carcass 
supine in the moribund evening, 
sjjrawled in the glaucous light 
of a dying sun? 

And of what is the silver-bright star 

young and alone 

in the paling evening sky? 





Drawings by Jack Stringer 

E ven though the afternoon sun 
was then full upon the porch 
' and upon him and the wicker 
chair, Gus Earle did not get up to 
pidl down the wide screen which 
hung from the ceiling. He closed his 
eyes, instead, and sucked on his cigar. 

My eyelids, he was thinking, are im¬ 
pinged upon by yellow glare. His fat 
little hands were folded across his 
plaid waistcoat, which he wore even 
in Jidy, and he coidd hear his watch. 

He was going to sleep. 

He was going to sleep when he 
heard the screen door open. Someone 
had stepped onto the porch. He kept 
his eyes closed, waiting. Perhaps who¬ 
ever it was woidd go away. 

“Uncle Gus!” 

“Yes, Cynthia.” 

It w'as his niece, his sister’s child, 
now nineteen. He knew that .she 
would not go away, that she had been 
taking her nap. He had not heard 
her at the piano and there was noth¬ 
ing else she did in the afternoons. 

“Uncle Gus, you just (piite simply can’t go to sleep 
again with your cigar in your mouth. Remember last 

“Yes, Cynthia.” 

The old man kept his eyes closed as he slowly re¬ 
moved his cigar and tossed it over the banister. 
“Right into the zinnias, l!ncle Chis.” 

“Yes, my dear. 1 know. \Vhat’s habitual with me 
is often surprising to others.” 

“Uncle Gus.” 

“Yes, my dear.” 

“Will it disturb you if 1 play the 
piano? I’ll play softly.” 

“Your playing never disturbs me.” 
“Oh yes it does. Beethoven does.” 
Gus saw that she had come to talk. 
He gave up going to sleep. 

“Have a dram of wine, Cynthia?” 
“I guess not. Uncle Gus.” 

“Then I will.” 

Gus wi])ed his forehead with the 
hack of his hand and set about light¬ 
ing another cigar. On the table beside 
him there was a pink-bound copy of 
Dumas’ Celebrated Crimes, volume 
lour. There were only the noises of 
an occasional automobile possing the 
old house and of the song of several 

“Elere, Cynthia,” Gus said as he 
reached for the wine decanter again. 
“I’m going to pour you a drip. \'ou 
look peaked. It’s for your health. 
I'here’s nothing better.” 

He poured her a glass. She said 
nothing, but sat with her fingers clutched around a 
wadded handkerchief. Her face was long and pale, 
her build was that of a di.ssipated person who had 
never bothered to exert herself in anything or to stay 
in the sun lor any length of time. 

“1 saw a lizard yesterday. Uncle Gus. It was verv 

“Nature is always splendid: from it wc get our 
sense of the sublime.” 

Ehere was a period of silence in which (lynthia 
killed a lly with a swatter. She did it without delihera- 

A former associate editor of the .\rchive and one of onr more consistent con¬ 
tributors last year, (iuv I).\VF,NPORr is nine a Rhodes Scholar in England. 
The above story, written last year at Duke, is certainly one of his best. 

NOVE.MBER, 1918 



tion or wiilunit inoNin*; Irom lu'i chair. 

"1 \a\c l.c'slic l.cvca vcMi'iclav. l iule (ins." 

W'fll now." Iu“ said, 'aiul 1 suppose you’re inter¬ 
ested in him. are vou? " 

■’No." she said, "liut I saw him." 

"Does lie still ha\e his heard?" 

"No. It was sills, am wav. He's shaved it oil. 

The li/ard was hrowii and blue. It had very small 
e\es. I lu le (lus. sou don't like me. do you?” 

"Now see here. Csnthia. 1 thought sve had set¬ 
tled all that. W’e're the best ol Iriends. my dear.” 

■'Hut sou didn’t like me svhen 1 svas a child. Vou 
alsvass svanted Mama to base a boy you could name 
Alexander. \'ou svanted to teach him (ireek and to 
make a lawyer out ol him like yoursell, didn't you?” 

"It was .Vugustus I svanted to name him.” 

"And vou don’t like me.” 

’■(onlound it. CAnthia, talk svith some sense. For¬ 
get all that rigamarole. Why don’t you talk about the 
Levett bos like you really svant to? I’m here to listen.” 

"1 haven’t the slightest interest in Leslie. He’s a 
fool. ” 

’’.Ml right, damn it, he’s an abject fool. You cle- 
sjjise the sight of him. Talk about the lizard.” 

Lncle Cius, when 1 came and Mama died anci that 
was a long time ago and you didn’t have the neural¬ 
gia . . .’’ 

“1 did have the neuralgia.” 

".\11 right, you had the neuralgia and Mama died 
and you put the black crepe on the door because I 
svasn’t a boy and everybody in town talked about it 
and .Mrs. (ilaymore died over across the street there in 
her rocking chair and . . .” 

■’Lofjk, Cynthia,” tins said with a short laugh, 
"why clcjn’t you take a svalk, huh? Leave me here to 
read my Dumas. You need sun. Go pick us a bowl 
of flcnvers lor supper. Christine never does.” 

"(ihristine wenddn’t know what to think.” 

'Christine would comment on them, I’m sure.” 

’’’Jes’ Icjok svhut Miss Cynthie clone clone!’ she’d 
say. 1 know her. ‘.Miss Cynthie clone been out in the 
front ya’d pickin’ flowers so’s .some beau’cl give her cle 
sheejr’s eye.’ ” 

“.My C,od, Cynthia, drink your wine.” 

"Leslie .said 1 was pretty.” 

’’He said that to your face? What ever provoked 
him to that? .Never mind. But I suggest you let him 
take you c>ut sometime.” 

"He texjk my hand and we walked around the 
blcjck. Old .Mrs. 1 rxlcl saw us. .She nearly broke her 
neck hxzking. We sat on the bench in the back yard, 
the c>ne in the bamboo grove. That’s where I .saw the 

lizard. It was a beautifid thing. I dreamed about the 
lizard last night.” 

Gus had closed his eyes again, his cigar stuck just 
under the apex of his great mustache. 

“1 dreamed Leslie was with me. We were in bed, 
I'ncle Gus. Oh, but we had our clothes on. He was 
saying things I couldn’t understand. You know, just 
gibberish. And a lizard came out of his sleeve and 

another one from somewhere. The bed was full of 

“Miss Cynthie! Where’s you at?” It was Christine. 

“I’m out here, Christine.” 

“You out dair wid Cap’n Gus?” 

Christine was immediately at the door, her hands 
to her hips, her chin parabolas of flesh. Her face was 
a configuration of mock austerity and capricious in¬ 

“Cynthie, dair’s somebody on de tillyphone wantin’ 
t’ speak wid you.” 

Cynthia went to the phone. Christine remained 
with Gus, even though he seemed asleep. She poured 
herself a taste of wine and downed it. 

“Who clat callin’ Miss Cynthie?” 

Gus grunted, “How should I know?” 

“I figures you knows.” 

“I have no idea.” 

“Who is it den?” 

“Levett. The Levett boy.” 

“I figures dat too. She been takin’ a shine t’ him.” 

“And how do you know that?” 




"I jes’ figures things.” 

"Were you listening to our conversation, Chris¬ 

‘1 doan haf ta. 1 jes’ looks aroun’ dis corner an’ 
tlat corner en whut 1 sees is whut de talk whut’s gwin 
afterds is about. 1 jes’ looks once er twice an’ tlen sits 
back in my rocker.” 

“And just what have you seen?” 


“Not even in the bamboo grove?” 

“I ain’t seen nuthin’.” 

“Not even through the eyes of Mary Todtl?” 

“Naw sidi. Whut does you know ’bout li/ards, 
Cap’n Gus?” 

“Nothing, (ihristine. Absolutely nothing. 1 haven’t 
seen one in years.” 

“If’n you go out in de back yard . . .” 

“(ihristine!” Ciynthia shouted. She had beeti walk¬ 
ing out to the front porch when she heard (ihristine 

Christine said, without looking around, “You’ll 
see one er dem very critters (laid an’ trounced an’ 
bangin’ by a ribbon to a bamboo brainch.” 

1 hen Christine left, giving Cynthia an ngly glance. 
She banged the screen door. 

“Ihicle Gus,” Cynthia said, “why do we endure 
that nigger? Does a Ixxly have to tolerate . . .” 

“Why, Cynthia, she was telling me something in¬ 

“It was Caroline Pinkham (in the jihone. Y(iu 
were so sure that it was Leslie Levett, weren’t you? 
Weren’t yon?” 

“I had no ojiinion,” Cius said. “Wdiat did Caroline 
have to say?” 

“Ibicle Gus — about what (diristine was saying. He 
trounced the li/ard with his foot. He was (juick and 
he struck out at it and killed it.” 

Ciynthia sat down and swatted another lly, with her 
previous non-deliberateness, almost out of boredom. 

“He tied my hair ribbon around its tail and then 
tied the lizard up on the bamboo.” 

“Isn’t he a bit old for that sort (if thing? He must 
be twenty. What did (iaroline have to say?” 

“It wasn’t Caroline. It was him.” 

“You’re going out with Leslie, then?” 

“Ot course not. 1 have to |)ra(tise. I've got to 
jicrlect the iKictnrne by Field.” 

Ciiis poured himself another glass of wine. Cynthia 
swatted another fly. The sun had begun to set, bright 
and yellow. 

“He said he wants to take me for a walk in half an 
hour. He said he would be over to get me.” 

“And y(iu told him y(iu wouldn’t go with him?” 

“No. When he comes, tell him 1 have t(i practise. 
Tell him I can’t g(i.” 

She said all this haughtily, as th(iugh she had been 

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Cius said. “Call him 
and tell him yourself.” 

“That’s just how much you despise me.” 

“My God! Ciynthia. It’s a matter of decent behavior, 
ol common sense, so to speak. You can’t treat people 
that way. You’ve said one thing and you’re doing 

“All right,” she said. “All right. I’ll go. I’ll gxj and 
tell him I’m going because yon made me go. I’ll tell 
him that. I’ll tell him you always make me do things 
I don’t want to. I’ll tell him that and leave him and 
come home by myself. I’ll outwalk him if he tries to 
follow me.” 

Gus looked at her, his eyes hard and (piestioning 
under his heavy eyebrows. I he telephone had begun 
to ring raucously. He rose from his chair, straightened 
his waistcoat and threw his cigar away. He gave her 
one swift, hard stare and sat back down. She (ould 
hear his breathing, coidd hear Christine answering the 
telephone. She had clutched at the arms of her wicker 
chair until her fingers hurt. Cins took out his handker¬ 
chief and wiped his forehead. Lhe st reen door banged 
and Cihristine tame out onto the jiorch. 

“Miss Ciynthie, Miss Ciaroline said she fo’got to tell 
yon jes’ now on de tillyphone dat dat book she was 
askin’ ’bout is in de liberry an’ she won’t hal t’ bony 
yourn after all.” 

“Thank you, Cihristine.’ 

‘A'as’m, en I taken down dat stinkin’ lizard an’ 
(happed it in de trash. I th’owed de ribbon ’way wid 
it too. Flow’d you kill dat lizzard. Miss Cynthie?” 

“With the garden rake, Christine. 1 saw it in the 
rock garden and suspected that it was jKiisonous.” 

‘A'as’m. Fhey is devilish things,” Christine said, 

“Cihristine!” Gus called as he lit up a third (igar. 
The old Negress came back. 


“Then that was the same jierson as (ailed before?” 

“1 sjiec so.” 

“Hut you said you thought it was that . . .” 

“I don’t know tvho it was, (iap’n (ins. 1 ain’t so 
good at heal in’ as I used ta be. 1 ain’t de one ta inner- 

“My Lord, Tncle (ins, leave her alone.” 

“Of course. Hut one more thing, Christine. Do you 
happen to know, by way of fact, if .Mrs. Levett’s son 




still lias that silh heard lie's been wearing arouiul 


He still hail it dis niawnin' when he 11 / out in his 
haek \a'd nekkid to de wais’ ihojipin’ in his ina's 
'^vaiiden. Ask Miss (iMithie dair. She'u/ peepin' at 
ini th'ongh de hanihoo." 

"Oh? " (dis said. "Hom iiulnstrions ol him to he 
uorking in his mother's garilen." 

'A'assuh. He's out dair mos' ev'ry niawnin'.” 

('.hristine hanged the door behind herself again. 
I he\ eoidil hear her going all the way hack to the 
kitchen, (.us put his fingers together and smiled. 

We Earles often tell lies out of boredom,” he 
said. "W e often do." 

C'-vnthia brushed a strand of hair hack from her 
face. She seemed completely composed. 

".May 1 have a glass of wine, Uncle Gus?” she said. 
"Fill it np to the brim.” 

Gus straightened np in his chair and reached for 
the decanter, "hut you Jiavc a glass already full.” 

"Yes, hut I’ve dropped Hies into this one. That’s 
how much 1 hate you.” 

Gus got up without looking at Cynthia, took his 
Dumas, his decanter and glass, and went into the living 
room, hanging the door behind him. Walking across 
the darkened room he bit down on his cigar so tightly 
that it teas cut in two and he jumped back with a 
curse as it fell onto the floor and bounced slightly, 
with a bright splatter of hot ashes. 



W E MET today in the cold bright sunlight. 
And we spoke. 

And our words were casual and awkward 
Becatise we were neither casual nor awkw'ard 
When we had met before; 

That was under satin soft moonlight 
And our words were sure and tender. 

While our actions were quick and passionate. 

Now we are to each other two heaps of dead ashes 
Blown together by a moment’s painful rekindling 
Ot a cold worn-out flame. 



Modern Dance 

Like most of the other modern arts, the dance has taken on new 
forms afid new aims—and likewise, as in the other fields, most people 
are aware of this change but not of its why’s and wherefore’s. Modern dance is at a further disadvantage when 
compared with, say, modern music or writing since the real thing is not as available to the public; and when it 
is, it is usually viewed with little understanding and therefore ivith little appreciation. With this in mind, we 
asked Jo Reynolds, who is undoubtedly the most active exponent of this art form on campus, to write us an 
article about it. Jo is a junior from Fort Meyers, Florida, and she spent last summer studying ivith Martha 
Graham in Neiv London, Connecticut. 



W HY, IT’S JUST like thought,” said Helen 
Keller, who had lived within herself her 
entire life without seeing a tlancer exceed 
through strength and skill the normal ability to leave 
the ground. In her world only the mind had such 
horizons, and she, by placing her hands on a dancer’s 
body as he moved, had experienced the pow'er of the 
dance that many of us miss. 

Martha Graham finished her story and looked over 
the class. “Now darlings, DANCE — don’t just 

It is difficult for a teacher to make a beginning class 
in dance technique see that dance is more than merely 
the movement of the body in patterns which follow 
music or an idea. Each 
teacher at the New York 
University - Connecticut 
College School of Dance 
had a different method, 
but each had the same end: 

“Dance—don’t execute.” 

The school (held in 
New London, Connecticut, 
this summer) was the re¬ 
vival of an old dream 
among dancers to have a 
center where the best in 
the field of modern dance 
could gather to teach and 
perform. I'he best were en¬ 
gaged: Martha Graham, 

well known among tlancers 
as a pioneer in dance art 
and to the public generally 

as last sjiring’s “Miss Hush”; Doris Humphrey, criti¬ 
cally acknowledged as the greatest living composer of 
dance: Jose I.imon, the greatest male dancer in the 
field; and the Dudley-Maslow-Bales 'Erio, a relatively 
new group of new talent. The rest of the names con¬ 
tinue to read like a page in the Who’s Who of the as- 
.sociated fields of music, set design, and poetry. 

Modern Dance in its purest, most professional form 
has yet to reach a large part of the pid)lic. At Duke 
we are only familiar with the specimens seen in the 
Modern Dance Club recitals and in last year’s Hoof 
’ll’ Horn show. I'lie modern idiom of dance has 
invadeil all the fields of art and entertainment, hut 
tuiyone who sees a Broadway or Hollywood version of 

it and goes away believ¬ 
ing he has seen modern 
dance is as enlightened as 
a child wlio looks in a 
bucket of wafer and thinks 
he has seen the ocean. The 
same is true of seeing just 
one of the many concert 
performers. Like anv art, 
the dance retpiires knowl¬ 
edge and continual attend¬ 
ance to he appreciated 
completely. ,V knowledge 
ol boogie helps little in un¬ 
derstanding Beethoven; a 
knowledge of Beethoven 
does not mean an under¬ 
standing of all music. 

First ol all, the cpiestion 
"What hS modern dance?” 




mu>i 1)<.‘ .inswcioil. Doris llinnphrcy has given us a 
loiuise ilefinition: ■‘Moclern liaiue is ihe art ciaiue 
ol our liiue." This tlisposes ol the Broadway sam¬ 
ples i(> some degree, aiui it also liispels any eoulusiou 
w itli l)allet wliich was the art ilauee ol a huudred and 
more \ears ago. .MtKleru dauee ileals with problems 
aiul subjects ol t)ur ilav. lew ileeatles ago our luotl- 
eru writers laced a problem; how were they going 
to write ol ilow u-to-earth leeliugs and situations il they 
were lorceil to ijlace them in a preconceived lorm 
and language? Their solution was the breaking ol 
the lorm. Dancers ol the rwenties had the same 
problem: how to dance what they really lelt il they 
hail to use pirouettes and attitudes—and their answer 
was the same. Ballet was principally using the physi¬ 
cal extremities, and arms and legs, but the center ol 
emotion is not there: the center ol lile is not there, 
rherelore the first movement ol the new moderns 
was the liberation ol the torso lor meaninglul move- 

Xi w Fiki.I) of Kxi’RKssio.n WhiH No Holds 


inent. Doris Humphrey conceived exciting methods 
of falling and leajjing which still jjlague Duke gym 
students. .Since the position of the standing body is 
normal, the tnost exciting moments must be those 
wlien the body is off its center of gravity in a fall or a 
leap. I hese changes were purely technical but they 

opened to dancers a new field ol expression wdth no i 
holds barred. This is still true of modern dance; ' 
you can do anything — il you do it well and with j | 
purpose. Execution usually changes wdth every new j 
performer. In that sense it’s like the G1 in Mauldin’s ' 
cartoon who says, as he looks back at the beachhead, 
"Gee, there we was and here w’e are.’’ 

Perhaps the fact that the modern idiom of dance , 
has moved to Broathvay is good, perhaps it’s bad. It 
may cause theatre lovers to go to see some of Valerie 
Bettis’ concert work. It may make them believe they 
have seen all they need to see. Perhaps they will be ; 
overcome w’ith the realization that concert dance is : 
just as entertaining as show' dance, and better. As it : 
stands today, dancing in shows is ruining many po- 
tentially good concert dancers w'ho have recourse to ; 
it to make a living. I 

HAT IS Modern Dance pure and simple. But 
what is it when it is not pure and simple?—it never i 
is. That is w'hat I learned this summer by being in . 
constant contact w'ith the men and women who are the ! 
life and breath ol the art. It is intimately bound up 
with the people w'ho make it. 

Doris Humphrey is one of the most lovely people 
I have ever encountered. She is reserved but friendly 
and poised. Alter sneaking into her rehearsals (a . 
crime almost punishable by death), I discovered how , 1 ; 
extremely critical she was ol her ow'n w'ork. Several 
years ago a bad leg forced her to give up dancing, and 
since then she has taken up the job of choreographer : 
and artistic director for the Jose Limon group. Her j 
manner was quiet but firm, w'hile Jose relieved re- | 
hearsal tension by telling jokes during breaks. No- I 
w'here more than here tloes one realise the saying that | 
art is an infinite capacity for taking pains. Long after i 
a performance woukl seem perfect to a lay observer, 
they labored over small points and polished iqr sections 
until we, the intruders, thought the dancers w'ould 
break under the strain. Then w'ould come the in¬ 
evitable call from Doris, “It looks nice. Now' let’s do 
it from the beginning.” At that point w'e sighed with 
w'earine,ss and suddenly remembered a composition 
assignment for the next day. As we left the auditorium 
we coidd hear Jose speak to the orchestra, “No boys, . 
it’s like this . . . ila, da, da.” ■ 

1 had two classes under Jose and his consistent ■ 
pleasantness and cheery smile even during the rigors 
of rehearsals was a source of joy and wonder to me. 
He w'as considerate in every w'ay, anxious over our 
small ailments and jidjilant over our small accom- 



plishments. He is not a great choreograplier but liis 
skill in interpreting and in pertormance is perhaps 
unsurpassed. He has a sidjtlely and an understanding 
which makes every movement beautilid and exciting. 
He is warm and human and he loves to laugh. Once 
when a student had stage tright and insisted that she 

“Libkration . . . FOR Mkaningfii.” 

simply could not go on, he slapped his hands on his 
legs and exclaimed, “Oh, my dear, I know just what 
you mean! Every time 1 go on a stage 1 think, 
‘Oinygod, why didn’t 1 stay on that turkey ranch 
in California!” 

Without doidit, Martha Chaham was the most 
widely known of the dancers at the school. On the 
other hand she is probably the most dilficult to de¬ 
scribe. She is a dynamic personality who sometimes 
almost hypnotizes her chesses. As a person you may 
or may not like her, but you cannot remain unaffected 
by her. That is why she is difficult. She is very retiring 
except in the pre.sence of her friends; she can be 
igracious ami sweet or she can be commanding and 
wrathful. As ati illustration of the student’s con¬ 
fusion 1 can remember one day after Afartha had been 
in rare form; she had run the gamut from cajoling 
to threatening. 1 staggeied up to one of the other 

students and said “Isti’t Martha . . .” I'o which 
she re{)lied, “She certainly is!” 

Her dancing is no more unusual than she is. It is 
a wonder that .so few understand her? Her work, 
whatever the subject matter, always has a tremendous 
impact, providing yon are familiar enough with her 
style to sift out the meaning. Ehis is the princijxil 
objection to her; she is obscure. No newcomer to the 
liekl should ever be di.scouraged he goes aw'ay 
from one of her concerts a bit bewildered. The best 
advice would be to shop around, .see Humphrey and 
Limon, see Hettis, see VVTidman, and come back in a 
few years. Many critics believe that Martha Ciraham 
has come the closest to reviving in her dance the (freek 
theatre. Her group work is splendid but in a few of 
her dances she comes close to using cliches. Many 
will find her dances depressing; this is no criticism of 
her artistry. Many of our greatest artists nener had a 
cheerful word. 

Clraham, being the more radical, often obscures the 
greatness of Doris Humphrey, who in her outlook is 
poised and outreaching whereas (iraham is intio- 
spective . It is my belief that Humphrey is the better of 
the two although comparison is not possible. One 
gets a feeling through Miss Hum|)hrey of the Dignity 
of man, and yet she is refreshing and delightful while 
Ciraham’s work is di.scordant and even her humorous 
numbers are at times wickedly satirical. 

Wbat 1 have hoped to tell you in these last few 
jjaragrajjhs is that there is no jjossible measuring rod 
to be given in judging and apjjreciating dance. It is 
like any art form, ^'ou must see, and as you .see you 
will slowlv find yourself accepting and discarding as 
vour own tastes dictate, fn the dance field there is 
a wealth of humor, tragedy, and drama together 
with an idiom which is interesting and active. Ehat 
idiom is the movement of the human body. Cirace of 
movement is not excluded Irom modern dance anv 
longer; it bas simply been compelled to .say something. 
It is impossible for the body to move without expre.s- 
ing. .\s Jose Limon says, “It is diflicult to lie when 
any gesture is employed; it is equally dilluiilt to evei 
pet form a truly abstract dance although there may be 
no literal statement present.” 

I hose who are prejudiced against dame, and 
against modern dance in particular, will probably 
never come to like it. Hut those who approach it with 
an opeti mind, ready to listeti to what it has to say 
whether they approve ol it or not, :ire in a jjosition 
to receive all the wealth that can be given by what is 
one ol our greatest art forms. 



A Powerful Novel About The Forces of Good And Evil 

H\ (.laliam C.rccne. l iking. 

.'Oti passes. 

Rixii wn) in N iRciL Hl.vck. 

. . . iii\ conscieiHc under the holy 
Spirit's influence hears me leitness 
. . . lelien I say that 1 ant greatly 
pained and my heart is constantly 
distressed, for 1 could wish myself 
ai cursed and cut off from Christ for 
the sake of my brothers . . . 

—Romans 9;1-.H 

SciOHlK'S DOWXEALL, accord- 
inii lo Ciiaham Greene, came be- 
cause he luid aheays considered it 
■'his responsibility to maintain hap¬ 
piness in those he loved.” As a po¬ 
lice otficer on the coast ol’ '.Vest 
.Vfrica, .Scobie found his official life 
much to his liking—but with Louise, 
his wife, it was a dilierent matter. 
One ol her lew pleasures was read¬ 
ing poetry (“literary Louise” she was 
called) and the social set of the Port 
loiiiul her didl—which she was in 
many ^^■ays. 

Hut .Scobie, who had ceased to 
love her long ago, still felt bound 
to her “by the pathos of her unat-,” and he had promised 
himsell that she should always be 
hajjpy. Since he was a man who al¬ 
ways accejjted lull responsibility for 
his actions, this jnomise was to lead 
to dire conseipiences. “Despair,” 
author C.reene .says, “is the price one 
pays lor setting oneself an impossible 
aim. It is, one is told, the unforgive- 
able sin, but it is a sin the corrupt 
or evil man never practices. He al¬ 
ways has hope. He never reaches 
the freezing jjoint of absolute failure. 
Only the man ol good will carries al- 
way-. in his heart this capacity for 

When Louise linally decides that 
she can only be happy if she moves 
to South Africa where she has some 
friends left, Scobie borrows the 
needed money for her trip from a 
crooked merchant Yusef. With his 
wife gone he finds momentary con¬ 
tentment and freedom in his work 
and bachelor life; for all he ever 
tvanted was “happiness for others 
and solitude and peace for himself.” 

But then Helen Rolt, a young 
willow who had been rescueil from a 
torpedoed ship, comes into his life, 
and she and Scobie fall in love, al- 


By Norman Mailer. Rinehart and 
Company, Inc., 721 pages. 

Reviewed kv R. 1). Loomis 

^^OME DAY when the critics stop 
using The Naked and the Dead to 
fight their own private wars and 
when the exaggeration that comes 
with reaction dies down, we may see 
a fair and discerning appraisal of 
this first novel by twenty-five-year- 
old Norman Mailer. 

Ehe first reports gave almost un¬ 
qualified praise. One reviewer 
(Charles G. Rolo in Tomorrow) 
felt that in many ways Mr. Mailer’s 
book surpassed Hemingway’s A Fnre- 
luell to Arms and Dos Bassos’ Three 
Soldiers, especially in its straight¬ 
forward attitude towards the war. 
(Contrary to those novels of the 
Twenties, The Naked and the Dead 
exhibits a more positive philosophy 
concerning the why’s and where- 

though he is thirty years her senio : 
Then Louise comes back, and Scobii. 
'he good man, finds himself in th 
unenviable position of having a wil 
and mistress, both of whom nee' 
him and both of whom he tries ( 
behave loyally towards. Moreovt 
he is a Catholic, and when he 
forced into going to communion t 
satisfy his wife’s suspicions withoi 
being confessed, he feels that he 
not only betraying those who lot 
him and need him but also his Go 
(Continued on Page 34) 

fore’s of the conflict it describes. 

Then came the inevitable rea 
tion. It was pointed out that tf 
style was at times verbose and ov( 
explanatory, that sex as a niotivatir 
force was given too much emphas 
and that the characters were dratt 
with a fatalistic lack of responsibili 
and played no jiart in their ov 
destiny. Even the parroting ai 
oftentimes colorless critic J. Dona 
Adams (treading safely in the loo 
'eps of a Life editorial—which, I 
the way, contains more foul baJ 
than hits) joined the bandwagon li 
wagging a scolding finger from Mt; 
tha’s Vineyard because, as he p 
it. The Naked and the Dead “t 
tuaily . . . shuts out whole areas 
American life.” 1 

CERNED with the detailed actio 
and thoughts of eight men as tlr 
land on and finally capture the j 

Out Of The War Comes A Novel 
Of Great Force And High Quality 


FOR . . . 

Bite or 
A Banquet’’ 

Go 1 o 



Located At 

1007 W. Main Street 

Convenient for 
Duke Students 

Keep Up 

With Happenings at 
Duke and In Durham 

By Reading the 

©urljant jMorning 


The Diirliaiii Siiii 

Special Cioverage of 
Duke News 

land of Anopopei in the South Pa¬ 
cific. Actually only three of them 
stand out clearly in the reader’s 
iniiul: General Cummings, who finds 
any means justifiable as long as it 
keeps his men under his control and 
afraid of him; Lieutenant Hearn, 
who has enough [iride to stand up to 
the General (a fact which finally 
sends him to his death) but not 
enough integrity to satisfy himself; 
and Sergeant Croft, an iinintel- 
lectnal model of the General, whose 
only pleasure in life has finally come 
to be his feeling of power over his 
men. The others come to the fore¬ 
ground at times, but mainly they 
act more as a chorus representing the 
rest of the men. There are hardly 
eight protagonists. 

Some of the battle scenes are 
among the best ever written about 
modern warfare, and the use of the 
soldier’s idiom of World War II is 
unsur])as,sed. ( The book has been 
referred to as a “voluminous com¬ 
pendium of eloipient GI bitching 
and profanity.’’) 

But Mr. Mailer is really at his 
best in portraying the life of the foot 
soldier, with all the intense discom¬ 
fort, fatigue, mental torture, and, 
above all, the petty l)ickering caused 
by boredom. I'here is something 
profoundly real about these scenes, 
something that tells vividly and 
powerfully (better so far than any 
other piece of writing to come out 
of this last war) of the lot of the 
foot soldier. 

The structure .seems to be organic; 
that is, given the basic idea, the sep¬ 
arate ej)isodcs “jnst grew” out of it. 
.\nd, according to .Mailer’s own ad- 
mi.ssion, the novel grew far bevond 
his original intentions, .\dmittedly, 
this method, if successful at all, is 
a very excellent way to write a novel; 
but as the author reached further 
out to indude more and more in the 
book, he finally incor])orated what 
are its greatest weaknesses — the flash- 
bat ks. In them an attempt is made 
to show how the eight characters 
(pin posefidly picket! from typical 
walks t)f Ainerican life) got the way 

Make Your 





For (rijl.s That Reflect 
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utes in our studios and ivc will 
keep you that uuiy forever.” 

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(Over the Ivy Room) 

Phone \-9172 


hcv arc. But tlicrc is a curious 
strain oi sameness running through 
ill ot them \\hich suggests that one 
experience or attitude, no matter 
how disgnisetl, is the backbone ior 
all. One has the impression too 
that the happenings described were 
careinlly picked lor their dramatic 
interest aiul nnnsnalness. Mr. Mail¬ 
er, it seems, iorgot that he was not 
only giving a background lor his 
characters but also a hasty interpreta¬ 
tion ol the whole of America and 
ts peoples. 

But llashbacks are only a 
small portion ol the novel (perhaps 
a lilth) and it is time to emphasize 
again that as a dramatic, artistic rec¬ 
ord ol inlantry lile in the South Pa¬ 
cific it stands unmatched. Aside 
Irom moral and sociological consid¬ 
erations, perhaps there are a lew 
criticisms that might be leveled at 
the writing itsell. Once in a while 
the prose becomes over explanatory 
and uneconomical in describing the 
emotions and conllicts in the minds 
ol the characters. But again this 
lanlt is small compared to the ac¬ 
curate and exacting (yet very much 
alive) prose lonnd throughout the 
rest of the novel. • • • 


(Continued from Page 32) 

and is condemning himselt to eternal 

In the end, honest, pious Scobie in 
his eflorts to give happiness to his 
wile and to his mistress has been 
forced to turn to lying, smuggling 
(he is blackmailed by Yirsel) , and 
even indirect murder. Finally he 
sees that only if he is out of the way 
can those he loves find happiness 
again—so he commits suicide, believ¬ 
ing comjjletely that he will be 
damned forever. 

It hS lO Ciraham Greene’s credit 
that he makes this story not only real 
but meaningful. Scobie, a proto¬ 
type of the Greene hero, is evil per¬ 
haps because he does not know he 
is good—just as Yusef may be good 
because he knows himself to be evil. 




Fraternity and 
Sorority Stationery 





Dance Invitations 


IN 1904 






Jerc is the struggle and conflict ol 
! very conscientious man in a sitna- 
on troin which he has no escape 
ithont hurting others. The ob- 
ions parallel ol onr present jjoliti- 
il situation (Church or cause?) has 
een pointed out, as has the jirev- 
!ent escape of suicide; but it is 
robable that exactly what is the 
aeart of the matter” will remain 
)mewhat of a mystery — as it did in 
lother very similar English novel 
ealing with the Catholic cjuestion, 
velyn Waugh’s Brideshead lie- 

Lest it be supjjosed that The Heart 
’ the Matter is so packed with 
oral and ethical problems that it 
ises dramatic interest, let the read- 
■ be reminded that Mr. Creene is 
so the master of susjjense and in- 
igue, being the author of such “en- 
rtainments” (as he calls them) as 
his ('jUU for Hire and The Min- 
,try of Fear. And the WTst Coast 
c Africa during the War oilers 
■licit material for suspense, with 
•■lies, diamond smugglers, etc., all of 
hich have been incorporated. 
Another very heartening thing 
nout Mr. Creen’s book is its lack 
t fatalism. The characters seem to 
lact from their own inclinations 
ither than from some overall de- 
trmining plan. Scobie makes his 
(vn destiny. More than once he 
lids himself in a position that will 
:low him to free himself of his mis- 
l(ess, Helen Rolt, but each time he 
ecides that it would not be right. 
I'he writing is exacting and in- 
trpretive — in fact so much so that 
le reader is constantly aware of it. 
Itch chapter seems to begin and enil 
1 th a simile with many more scat- 
t ed in between. .\nd if these 
snilies weren’t so excellent and the 
c des so meaningful and enlighten- 
fjj' there might be some temptation 
^ call it Tine” writing. Perhaps it 
i because our .Vmerican novels are 
6 prone to contain nothing but 
^aight narration that (iraham 
-Deene’s very excellent novel seems 
^jided in this one respect. • • • 


One (rood 
poet (male) 
and One Master of the 
Familiar Essay. 

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[Continued from Page 7) 
cherzo, or ballade, and hardly a 
(lazurka, prelude, or nocturne! Poor 
eproducing machines and inade- 
(uate listening rooms have made 
he study of recordings difficidt for 
lusic students, and the students not 
nrolled in music courses have had 
iractically no ojjportunity to listen 
or enjoyment. 

What is worse, in the hfteen years 
f its existence, the music depart- 
lent has never had piano-equipped 
iractice rooms! 

This means that when the univer¬ 
ity listed instruction in applied mu- 
ic in its annual catalogue, it was 
little more than an effort to save 
tee. Because of these limitations 
nd because of the smallness of the 
lusic faculty, only a few broad 
ourses could be taught. The April 
948 catalogue lists a course in or- 
hestral literature which deals with 
11 this type of music from the seven- 
eenth century to the present. 

Woidd the University offer a 
ourse in European written 
tiring that period? 

In the same catalogue a course in 
loral literature is described as “a 
irvey of choral styles of the Renais- 
. nee, Baro(jue, Classic - Romantic, 
id modern periods. A critical an- 
\i\;ysis of representative sacred and 
'^ cular forms such as oratorios, pas- 
ons, masses, cantatas, anthems, 
__^udes, motets, madrigals, ballets, 
V.ansons, glees, rounds, etc.” And 
ije instructor of this course ex- 
« esses hope of being able to crowd 

in attention to solo vocal music of 
opera and art song. Such spirit is 
insane optimism — or great love for 

Through The Years 

In spite of all impediments, how¬ 
ever, the music department has 
made progress since its inception in 
the 19.H.T34 school year. Only two 
courses were offered in the hrst year. 
There are now' twelve. Enrollment 
in the music courses has risen from 
fifteen students in 19.S3 to over two 
hundred sixty in the current se¬ 
mester; the number of instructors, 
from one to four. The department 
at the present time sponsors four 
musical organizations: the Duke 
Band, the Duke Symphony Orches¬ 
tra, the Duke Chamber Orchestra, 
and the Duke Madrigal Society. 

I'he Chamber Orchestra and the 
Madrigal Society are easily the best 
musical organizations on the cam¬ 
pus. d'he variety of high-quality mu¬ 
sic that they perform is enough in 
itself to give them that distinction. 

Last spring (for probably the first 
time here) a recital of compositions 
by students in the musical theory 
classes was presented. There were 
interesting works in a variety of 
forms, some written for (horns or 
instrumental combinations, others 
for solo instrument or voice. It is 
to be hoped that such a recital will 
l)e produced annually. 

Advantages In Asbury 

The university has treated the 
music department as its red-haired 
step-child, but is finally beginning to 
give it some attention. Many new 
facilities have been ])r(jvided for in 
Asbury. A special room has been 
set aside for the record library and 
two sound-proofed listening rooms, 
for the use of students in music 
courses — extra machines can be 
placed in classiooms not in use for 
others who wish to hear recordings. 
(It should be mentioned, too, that 
a grant of .SI50 dollars has been made 
for the purchase of vtxal recordings 
alone.) Ehere are sound-proofed 
(lassrooms ecpiipped with pianos, 
and practice rooms — about eight of 

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A field of red where tragedy lies, 

A cheerful thing when it’s something of Ty’s. 

The shamrock and the blarney stone 
Have helped to make its power known. 

Ten to the sixth say they satisfy. 

Ten to the zero will echo their cry. 


You’re all agog! You meet your super dream boy when 
you’re movie bound! And you start to feel guh-guh- 
guh! Don’t do a fadeouti Don’t resign from the human 
race! Just rush up and offer him yummy Life Savers. 
Maybe he'll go to the movie, too. 




1. Identify the 3 subjects in back cover ad. All clues are in ad. 

2. Submit answers on Chesterfield wrapper or reasonable fac¬ 
simile to this publication office. 

3. First ten correct answers win one carton of Chesterfield 
Cigarettes each. 

4. Enter as many as you like, but one Chesterfield wrapper or 
facsimile must accompany each entry. 

5. Contest closes midnight, one week after this issue’s publica¬ 
tion date. New contest next issue. 

6. Answers and names of winners will appear in the next issue. 

7. All answers become the property of Chesterfield. 

8. Decision of judges will be final. 


Hats Off to Duke Students 

In past years we have been proud to serve 
the Duke Students. In doing so we feel we 
have had a small part in aiding you to realize 
your high hopes for the future. 

It is our desire to continue to serve you 
now and in the years to come. 




Meet Your 
Friend At The 

Duke Hotel 

A Bland Hotel 

Enjoy your refreshments 
and meals in our 


them, some with pianos—are being 
prepared in the basement of Asbury. 
A concert grand piano has been or¬ 
dered for the Asbury auditorium. 

Only A Good Start 

Now, all of this is splendid, but 
it is not enough! The record library 
should have for the storage of its 
recordings new’ cabinets w'ith vertical 
racks, not horizontal ones as at pres¬ 
ent, and with doors to protect the 
discs from dust as much as possible. 
Cireat gaps still exist in the record 
collection, and they must be filled 
before detailed history courses can 
be offered. T here should be a great¬ 
er number of special listening rooms 
so that the ordinary student may 
have an opportunity to hear record¬ 
ings, and so that the reproducing 
machines will no longer be ruined 
by being carried from place to place. 
Better machines are needed. The 
Zenith players now in use have light¬ 
weight “pick-up” arms and conse¬ 
quently wear the records little, but 
their reproduction is very poor. The 
“eight juactice rooms, some ivith 
pianos,” w'ill certainly not be suffi¬ 
cient. In all probability they wdll be 
reserved for the use of students tak¬ 
ing applied music, leaving the two 
hundred sixty other music students 
and music lovers without access to 
pianos, as at present. (Actually, 
there should be juactice rooms on 
West Camjjus too.) 

The music faculty must be en¬ 
larged so that the j)resent all-inclu¬ 
sive survey courses can be broken 
into smaller segments for concentra¬ 
tion, and so that other courses can 
be added. Surely it is evident from 
such facts that the administration 
must not be allowed to think that it 
has settled with the music dcjtart- 
ment for the next fifty years. The 
students must denounce and wheedle 
until, jjoint after jtoint, these im- 
jjrovements are obtained. • • • 


(Continued from Page 6) 

ments, it hangs over them ominous¬ 
ly like a sword sus|)ended by a thin 


Just right for office or 
dating. Deb-u-curl is per¬ 
fect for a tight or softwave 
— on long or short hair, 


Beauty Salon 

Town and Campus 

Ifs Pete’s to Pat 



“.Across from East C:amj)us” 


V a rsity 


Chicken and Steak 
In the Basket 

7 A.M.-l A.M. 

\Vc will fill your phone 
orders and have them 

lOOO \V. Main Phone R-5941 




408 Geer Street 
Phone F-I39 

^\'hat motivates sneh a paradox? 
I'hosc who have had some experi¬ 
ence writing don't particularly want 
to anymore, and those who are just 
beginning are turning out the words 
with amazing prowess. 

The Old College Try 
Attention writers. Chi Delta Phi is 
again sponsoring their Eas^t Cantpus 
creative writing contest. All contest¬ 
ants are automatically considered for 
membership in this very exclusive 
literary group. Short stories should 
not be less than 750 words nor ex¬ 
ceed 3000 words. All entries must 
be typed and unsigned] names 
should be enclosed in an accom]3any- 
ing envelope. 

Manuscripts will also be consid¬ 
ered for the Archive and must be 
turned in to Pam Bedell by Decem¬ 
ber 1. Prizes will be announced later. 

National Notoriety 
Speaking of Chi Delta Phi, Marcia 
Norcross, President of the organiza¬ 
tion, won their National Short Story 
Contest last spring. Her entry was 
“A Million Women” which appeared 
in the October 1947 Archive. 

The prize was a scholarship to any 
of the various writers’ conferences. 
.Marcia chose the one at the Univer¬ 
sity of Colorado because she’d never 
been in the mountains. Such names 
as Ben Ames Williams, Kathleen 
Windsor, John Mason Brown, John 
R. Tunis, and Mark Schorer were 
also there. • • • 

Save Money 

Come to the 

G & D Automatic 
Home Laundry 

526 East Main Street 
Telephone L-0563 

You Do the Writing 
I’ll Do the Typing 


L-0563 Or 

526 East Main Street 

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N. C. Branch Office 
IOO 2 V 2 W. Main St. 

Your Official Fraternity 

Dist. Mgr. 


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STARRING IN int LUL^ ur me it 

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THE 4 



January, 1949 


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History Lesson 

Someone has said that it you 
know your history well nothing 
should surprise you since everything 
that is happening now has happened 
somehow, somewhere, before. 

The time was December, 1939. 
The place was in the Archive of that 

Lorenz Eitner, then editor, who, 
along with George Zabriskie and 
company, was responsible for put¬ 
ting otit one of the best Archives 
ever, wrote the following in his edi¬ 

“We have observed — not without 
a certain malicious satisfaction — that 
the other publications have received 
this year the jmblic panning which 
used to be the Archive’s traditional 

Now, nine years later, the cycle 
has come around full swing again, 
and we may — without too many 
reservations, we hope — take Eitiier’s 
statement as our own. 

Our Troubles 

Of course, one of the main draw¬ 
backs of a college literary magazine 
is the fact that of necessity it must 
be somewhat jnetentious. It usually 
fills its pages with subjects it is 
neither competent enough to talk 
about nor experienced enough to 
execute. But it must, nevertheless, 
use sidijects as well as it can — 




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and then weather tlie Inickhals. 

Moreover, in the Arciiivf. we have 
limited our.selves not only to literary 
(and lairly serious) subjects, but 
also have attempted to use in the 
main uiidergradunte writers from 

In the jiast there have been 
Archi\i-.s tvhich accepted copy from 
outside sources and “big names”— 
usually because the editor had co7i- 
uertious. But while issues per¬ 
haps had a somewhat better content, 
they failed in the central idea of the 
magazine, that is, to serve as an out¬ 
let for the .seriotis creative writing of 
Duke students. 

Ton jours the Library 

I'o all those leaning toward the 
literary, or possibly even those whose 
reading interests have developed be¬ 
yond the stage of the Rouer Boys, the 
contest sponsored by the Duke li¬ 
brary (now the “best in the South”) 
should come as a matter of great in¬ 

And all those who are concerned 
with the more mercenary side of 
things will also be interested to learn 
that there is a twenty-five dollar prize 
olfered to the winner of the contest. 
It is sponsored for the purpose of 
discovering which student at Duke 
has the best collection of books. This 
collection should not merely be a 
haphazard set of books, but should 
be built around one central idea or 

O East is East 

At a university as large and sup¬ 
posedly with as much intellectual 
interest as Duke, a contest of this 
.sort should excite some enthusiastic 
response, but the so-called lackadaisi¬ 
cal student body has remained pro¬ 
verbially lackadaisical about it. Last 
year, in fact, two prizes were offered, 
one for East Campus and one for 
West Campus—but the response was 
so poor from East that the library 
declined to give any prize there. 

Rockford Shows Us Up 

At Rockford College in Illinois, a 
famous old school for girls, the same 
type of contest was started several 
(Conlinuerl on Page 38) 

FOR . . . 

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Telephone J-3001 





Owned and Operated For 
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Women’s College Store 
' Hospital Store 


Bv Dan Battkrson 

It’S one ol the trials ol this 
world, it is, that good things come 
w’eighted with bad ones. Now, this 
is just as true of the Duke concert 
series as of anything else. If we hear 
excellent music-making by an Or- 
chestre National anti a Budapest 
String Quartet, we are punishetl 
with a Pons anti a CiountHl’s Romeo 
and Juliet. 

Pons’ Poses 

As far as Pons’ cttncert is cttn- 
cerned, I can’t remember ever having 
seen so much anti heartl so little at a 
m u s i c a 1 jjerformance. Blontlinetl 
hair, Parisian gowns, jewels, anti a 
good agent will get more peo¬ 
ple into a concert hall than any t)thei 
means. .V sweet smile employetl fre¬ 
quently, kintlness fttr acctmipanists, 
a Hock of puppy tlogs and—or is this 
unkindly suspicious of the latly?—a 
graceful lajjse of memttry in an un- 
imjKtrtant pas.sage will satisfy more 
people than will great inter])ieta- 
tions of great music. There have 
been, of course, singers who tapi- 
tali/.ed ttn pidtlicity anti yet gave 
musically valitl perltirmances. .Mary 
Ciartlen was such. Pons is nt)t. Her 
whole program consistetl of more oi agreeable, but superlitial pieces 
of music. Selections like Bishop’s 
“1.0, Hark the (ientle Lark” are 

{Continued on Page P>) 


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VOL. 62 No. 2 

With the acquisition of Asbury building, the department of Aesthetics, Art, and 
Music has at last been given the space and inaterial so sorely needed for many 
years. The expansion will indeed allow this department to achieve a fuller stature and a higher prominence 
within the university. The art department has already xindergone a visible renaissance, ivhich is evidenced 
by the student work exhibited last December. Probably the most notable innovation is the conducting of 
applied art courses by the informal studio plan. Jack Stringer, art editor of the Archive, is a junior and 
intends to enter art .school upon graduation. 



D uring recent months Asbury building on 
East Campus has been re-modelled and re¬ 
decorated to house the Art, Aesthetics, and 
Music Department. I’o many 
students here this undertaking 
has been a very satisfying sight, 
lor an enlarged art department 
has long been needed. Duke 
University, as a large institution 
of learning, should offer courses 
in all the major fields, including 
art. Nevertheless, no one should 
delude himself by believing that 
Duke should have an art depart¬ 
ment as large, for instance, as 
the school of engineering. Lhere 
are just not that many people in¬ 
terested in painting. Hut there 
is a definite faction which de¬ 
sires a good art department, and 
it is gratifying to see Duke recog- 
ni/.e this group. 

Since the war there has been 

a marked revival of interest in painting and drawing 
in colleges and schools. Institutions such as the .\rt 
Students’ League ol New' York have been swamped 
with applications, and a great 
many of these aspiring artists 
are veterans. Not every scholar 
on this campus is buying paint 
brushes by any means, but a 
class in painting is no longer 
looked upon as an almost-for¬ 
gotten crib-course cached away 
ill some musty corner of the 

rime and again 1 have seen 
visitors come to the painting 
stutlio in .\sbury wearing an ex- 
jiression of either amused con¬ 
descension or profound confu¬ 
sion. In defense, many ol the 
members of the class assume an 
air of grave superiority and the 
/ net result is very unfortunate. 
The visitor mutters something 

JANUARY, 1949 



Marcia Crane 

alioiit "ilaimi-lool (laiil)in«s,” and stalks niit, tvhile 
the (niter stands belore his tanvas and innltles about 
the "iinedncated jteasantry.” 

Seritnisly tliougli, il (tne wishes to understand 
|jaintitig, he will soon discover it takes tonsiderable 
time and sttuly. It is mjt that ctjnteniporary art is so 
(onijtlex or altstiact, tliat it is beyond comprehen¬ 
sion; it is just that there is a need t(j find out the 
problems (onliajiiting the artist. Some modern art 
is goml, but a great deal of it is poor. Sejiarating the 
gtjod ami the bad is olten a very difhctdt jiroltlem. 
I.earn sfjinething about the artist and one can often 
learn a great deal about his woik. 

I nrning back tcj our visitor again, when he enters 
the painting class, he very seldom will find jjicttires 
that "l(jrjk like scmiething.” I'he popular taste runs 
to realism and the average man rebels when he sees 
:• '((nliised jumble of line and color, ft is perfectly 

nattiral for him to ask: "If the public wants realism, 
why aren’t more artists producing it?” 

The an.swer to this qtiestion can be found right 
in the painting class on East Campus. Primarily 
there is the lack of professional models for any type 
of figure sttidy. And, of course, there is the compe¬ 
tition of the photograph. Not only would the Duke 
administration jtrobably frown upon classes in figure 
jiainting, imt also a good model demands an amaz¬ 
ingly high salary. A professional artists’ model gen¬ 
erally receives approximately ten dollars an hour. 
Thtis it is easily seen why magazine illustrators fre- 
(juently work from photographs. 

Cl.AS.S in jjainting cannc^t proceed along defi¬ 
nite and prescrihed lines. The instruction of each 
person varies to a tremendous degree. I'he visitor will 
find ail types of work in various stages of completion, 




and Avith a little cHort and study one can see a very 
flexible pattern ol work being carried out. First, it 
must be understood that very lew of the students are 
accomplished draughtsmen. Consequently, and due 
also to a lack of models, the course of work turns to 
other equally important points of study. I'he instruc¬ 
tor strives to teach the fundamentals of good com¬ 
position and color, fundamentals Avhich may not 
produce Rembrandts, hut which at least will improve 
• the student’s tastes in painting and draw'ing. If it is 
possible to arouse a real interest on the part of the 
student, half the battle is won. The individual can 
then carry his study to any desired degree. 

,\ principle rea,son why “realistic” painting is re¬ 
stricted here at Duke (and in many other schools) is 
the pitfall of realism’s extreme complexity. Frecpiently 
students who try a naturalistic work become so in¬ 
volved in petty details that their jAainting becomes a 
jumble of insignificant objects. Simplicity is a prime 
necessity. This simjAlicity is obtained only by breaking 
S down and abstracting natural objects in basic forms. 

!; In many cases these forms become geometric. As in 
many other courses, the work is accunndative; a Avhole 
series of basic exercises leads gradually to the conq^re- 
hension necessary to conqdete a finished product. 

On these pages are reproduced ]3aintings of the 
Avork of Mr. Mueller’s class in jjainting. I’hese can¬ 
vasses are not tridy representative since the more 
realistic Avorks have been chosen to shoAv that all ton- 

Carrie Chamberlain 

! ’ 


I temporary ]Aainting is not incomprehensible. .\s long 
j as the public demands realism, there Avill be men to 
h produce it. It is necessary to remendjer that these 
studies are not illustrations; do not try to read any 


Robert M. Itroderson 

story, d'here are here some landscapes and jxnlraits, 
but others are exercises in design and color. Fhese 
latter Avorks are attenq)ts to put an object or .series 
of objects (generally abstract) on canvas in an inter¬ 
esting and colorful manner and to disregard any story¬ 
telling possibilities. A noted artist said recently; “To 
judge a paintitig, just imagine you’se decorated a 
room in your house Avilh your laAorite color. If you 
think that painting Avoidcl look Avell hanging on the 
Avail in that room, then buy it!” 

Despite certain limitations, real progress has been 
made in .\sburv building in the painting studio. No 
longer is the class hidden aAvay in a garret in the 
Science building. 'Fhere is a large, Avell-illmninated 
studio in Avhich to Avork. At long last such et]uipmcnt 
as easels and clraAving boards have ccsme in for the 
students’ use. I'nfortuiAately a great deal of the ecpiip- 
ment the student must buy for hinrself, and painting 
material is both expetisivc aticl hard to get. Despite 
these ])rc)blems, an excellent begitming has been made, 
and this effort should lead to even more itnpro\e- 
inents. 'Fhis beginning marks a greater interest in art 
on the part of both the administration and students 
of Duke Tni\ersity. 


JAM'ARV, 1919 




Drawing by Carrie Chamberlain 


The sharp scream re\erberatecl about the four 
thill walls and settled down among the cracks 
in the floor. After a moment of silence when even the 
crickets had stopped their cricketing, scuffling foot¬ 
steps beyond the wall proceeded along the floor 
around the bed and the chair and stopped in the door- 
ivay of the room from where in the pitch blackness 
the scream had come. 


When there was no answer from the blackness the 
steps moved again and stopped again. A match spit 
red sparks as it was struck, and 
then it began to cast a wavering 
weak light, slowly spreading the 
circle of light outward until it 
enveloped a voluminous white 
nightgown and the whitish 
gleam of two eyes in the black 
face above it. As the flame grew 
it disclosed a bed on which the 
covers had been thrown far 
back, leaving the expanse of a 
discolored sheet wrinkled on the 
bed. The flame unrolled its 
light forward as the sun does at 
dawn, and it hesitantly reached 
out toward the far side of the 
rumpled bed where a young girl 
crouched in the corner. It even¬ 
tually showed the pale colors of 
her flimsy nightgown of light 
blue with big red roses on it. 

The kinky black hair on her 
head stood nearly straight up, 
giving her head an abnormally 

big expanse in the feeble light. Her eyes, too, were 
big with terror, and they stared down at the empty 
bed as if they expected a devil to appear there in the 

Sally, what’s wrong? 

The eyes which had focused so long on the empty 
bed glanced upward toward the match and the woman 
who held it, a specter which one might expect to meet 
in hell. The match flickered and went out. 


Sally, shut up. What’s wrong with you anyway? 
Another match struck, she turned to light an oil 
lamp which stood on the little 
round table behind her. In the 
moment of darkness the girl 
seemed to have felt as if some 
evil had lurked in the bed be¬ 
side her for she had screamed 
again, and when the light ap¬ 
peared again she was staring 
fixedly at the bed as before. She 
said, finally: 

There’s a snake in this bed. 
At the mention of the name 
the girl and the woman involun¬ 
tarily drew back sharply. The 
one standing turned after a mo¬ 
ment and picked up a broom 
which leaned in the corner be¬ 
hind the door. With it she 
warily approached the bed and 
flipped back the covers little by 
little. When they were turned 
all the way down and no snake 
had been discovered, she stopped 
still and looked at the girl who 

This is Quay Grigg’s third story to appear in the Archive. 
Majoring in English, he is a member of Dr. Black¬ 
burn’s creative writing class and will graduate in June. 




Still crouched in the corner of the bed next to the 

Mama, there was a snake in this bed. I felt it. It 
climbed right over my stomach. 

You was asleep. 

I scared it away when I screamed. 

You ain’t .seen no snake. 

Mama, there was a snake in this bed. Look under 
the bed on the lloor. 

She knelt down on her knees and swept the broom 
back and forth. 

You had a dream, Sally. You aiti’t seen no snake. 

Well, ain’t that just as bad? It was Jude. 

Yes, I guess so. 

What am I going to do? I can’t stay here if [tide 
is going to keep coming back. 

Sally, maybe he won’t come anymore. He’s been 
dead three days, and they always come back in three 
days. He won’t come no more. 

The oil lamp on the table began to shed a more 
sure light as it became warm, and the room assumed a 
more concrete apjjearance. The glare of the light 
sharply outlined the two hgures on the wall behind 
them so that their shadows stood there on the wall, 
like ghosts observing the scene and imitating the actors. 
The shadow on the wall behind the bed resembled 

some jnincess with a headdress of feathers because of 
the stilf black hair which still stood up from terror 
and from sleep. 

Mama, do snakes always come when—.somebody’s 

No. Just sometimes. 

Arbutus says husbands always tlo. She said so this 

He wasn’t your husband, no way. 

Instead of answering the girl sulked and looked 
out the window at the dark trees outside which formed 
a black, impenetrable wall. 

1 oughtn’t to have ever let him live in my house 
anyway. You at least should have made him marrv 

He was my husband, anyway. 

The older woman shrugged rather than argue. 

He sure didn’t last long. .4ny man that’ll die 
rather than marry a woman ain’t worth much. 

Do you think he’ll come back again? Mary Fdsie 
had a baby after she dreamed a snake was in bed 
with her. Mama, do you think I’ll have a baby? 

I don’t know. 

I'he oil lamp smoked on the table and the llame 
grew brighter and forced terror into the shadows, 
where it hid until the light should go out again. 



AND beside the way 
Was a sage reading 
-^From the Book of \Visdom. 
Seeing me he asked, “Why 
Did yon take this path?” 

“To look for my love,” I replied 
As youths will. Whereupon I 
Related her dreamed beauty 
.\nd virtue. Fhe sage 
Laid his hand uj)on me. 

“I have been far and have 
The wisdom of experience,” 

He said. “The love you describe 
Has often been pursued 
But never been found. Lease 
■^'otir wanderings. It is hopeless.” 

I turned so that I would not 
Hurt him as I laughed. 

He did not know 
I had met 


JANUARY, 1919 


It is the blight iiuni 7t<(is born for, 

It is Margoret you nioinu for. 

-CiERARI) ^iANL^:,^ Hoi’KlNS 

by R. D. LOOMIS 

F or a MOMKN r he clel)atecl whether or not 
to tlirow a stone at the ujtstairs window, but 
then, thinking lie might break it, he deeided 
to veil again, this time imieh lotider. 

Tnele Raljili! . . . Atint Lenore! ” 

Xo answer. 

He liegan to leel heljiless and embarrassed, and 
then angrv. From the letter his mother had written 
he knew they bail expeeted him last night, hut the htis 
had broken down and now it was six o’cloek on a cold 
lall morning. .\t least, he thought, they coidd have 
lelt the door unlocked. He was alraid to call out any 
loiuler because ol the neighbors. 

d hen he wondered il maybe they hadn’t left the 
backdoor open, and he started arotind the side of the 
house, leaving an oversi/cd which was mucli 
too hea\y lor his thirteen years on the front jKUch. 

Ikit the backdoor was locked too, and after an¬ 
other moment of fruitless deliberation he finally sat 
down on the hackstejis with his chin in his hands. 
He shivered once, voluntarily, but it only made him 
feel better lor an instant. It had been exciting in a 
way when the btis broke down because he wasn’t in a 
hurry, and at some other time it might have been 
exciting to be locked out like this; but now he was 
tired and he wanted to go to bed. He was too sleejiy 
trj make a game of it. 

He looked up with weary and helpless resignation 
at the window nearest him on the first floor, and then 
remembered suddenly, with a warm shock, that it was 
the window to .Margaret’s room—or at least it had 
been the last time he visited .Saytan. 

He tried to reach it to knock but couldn’t, even 
after standing on an upturned pail which he found 
under the outside water ta|i; .so he began looking for 
a >ti(k. There were a few clothespoles leaning against 
the side of the garage and with one of them he scraped 

on the screen of the window as hard as he coidd 
without pushing it through. 

“Hey, Margaret, wake up. . . . Let me in.” 

He waited for an answer, but when none came he 
reached up once more. Just then a voice, clear and 
low—but a little wary—asked, “Where are you?” 

“Out here.” Where the dickens does she think I am? 
he wondered. “Come on to the window.” 

Vaguely, partly because the light was dim and ' 
partly because the screen was in the way, he saw a 
face peek out. 

“Oh, hello,” she said. The tone was bored, com¬ 
pletely devoid of any interest, and he felt a tinge of 
disappointment because she didn’t appear glad, or 
even surprised, to see him. “We thought you weren’t 
coming,” she added. 

Margaret was twelve, although strangers were 
always surprisetl to learn of it because she looked and 
acted much older. In fact now she had no compan¬ 
ions her own age, preferring, and even insisting, that 
she be allowed to share in all the activities of whatever 
adults she happened to be with. He knew that if he 
coultl see her expression now it would probably he 
one of mild vexation, forced perhaps, but unshakably 
aloof. Actually it never Itothered him much and he 
paid little attention to her. 

“How about unlocking the backdoor?” 

He saw her disappear from the window, so he re¬ 
turned to the door to wait. Inside, a faint awkward 
clomjjing grew louder, and then the key turned in 
the latch. The door opened and Margaret stepped 
back to allow him to enter. 

First, but only for an instant, he was aware of 
that same smell which always pervaded his aunt’s 
house and which reminded him faintly of a new elec¬ 
tric sweeper mixed, though even more faintly, with Then he noticed Margaret. She was wearing 
her own housecoat but she had on a pair of her 

R. I). I .ooMi.s, editor of the Archive, comes from Plain 
City, Ohio. This story is one of a series centering in and 
around Sayton, a small town mythically set in Ohio. 




mother’s shoes which Hopped loosely at the heels when 
she walked and her hair was held hack by a ribbon. 
Kilt what was more surprising was the lipstick, not too 
delicately applied, which sharply accentuated the 
peakeilness ol her lace and which, of its thick¬ 
ness, had smeared oil on to her teeth. 

He started to laugh, more from astonishment than 
from delight, but the self-assured levelness of her gaze 
restrained him even from saying anything. 

“VVe waited up till quite late for yoti, Andy,” she 
said admonishingly. “And then when you diiln’t 
come . . 

He thought he saw that slight smirk on her face 
again, almost as if she were blaming him for some¬ 
thing, but he couldn’t be stire because of the lipstick. 

“1 know,” he said. “I couldn’t help it. The bus 
broke clown ... I didn’t mean to get you up so early 
like this.” As he spoke he felt mcne awkward than 
ever since obviously she had already been uj), perhaps 
for a long time. He walked on past her thrcjugh the 
house, explaining, “1 left my suitcase out on the front 

He got the and half-carried, half-slid it 
into the living room. It made considerable noise as 
it bounced over the dcjorsill. Nfargaret grabbed him 
by the arm and put a forefinger to her 
over-red lips. 

“Sh-h-h,” she cautioned, pointing to 
the sofa. Her father was slee]nng there 
with a cpult thrown over him. 

“Ciosh, 1 didn’t .see him,” Andy said. 

“VVdiat’s he doing there anyway?” 

Margaret shrugged her shoulders, 
more with an attitude of not caring 
than not knowing, and turned to walk 
back towards her room. 

.Andy followed her, whispering. “May¬ 
be he was waiting up for me, huh?” 

She didn’t answer until she had 
reached her room, and then all she said 
was, “1 don’t know. He went to bed 
when we did.” 

Andy sat clown on Margaret’s bed— 
which she had already made — and 
watched her as she took .some Kleenex 
from the drawer of her dre.ssing table 
and began wiping oil .some letl spots shaped like lip 
prints which were smeared on the oval mirror. 

“What’s that?” 

“It’s nothing.” She continued cleaning the mirror 

methodically and calmly and put the soiled tissues in 
the pocket of her hoirsecoat. “Don’t you want to get 
some sleep?” she asked. 

“I guess I ought to. . . . Hut I don’t feel as tired 
as 1 did though.” 

Margaret wiped the last smear away and turned to 

“Where am I supposed to go? ” he asked. 

“1 guess you can use the claybed for now.” She 
turned again and stared at herself in the mirror. “I’m 
sure I don’t knew where Mother wants you.” 

He stood iqj. “O. K.,” he said, and walked re¬ 
luctantly from the room. 

I hen he remembered that he didn’t want to sleep 
too late and he stuck his head back in the room. 
Margaret was leaning close to the mirror, her eyes 
almost closed. She turned to him with a start. He 
had never seen her face h^ok like that. It was more like 
a mask, as if she had fcngcjtten herself oi as if she were 
looking past him .scmie where. 

“Say, get me ujj before noon, will you?” 

Sbe took a cleej) breath and nodded condescend¬ 
ingly in a way which gave him tcj understand that 
there was nothing more to say. 

d'he sheets on the claybed were cool as he pushed 
his bare legs clown into them, but they 
soon warmed with the heat of his body 
and before he could begin to think about 
anything he was asleep. 


E .AWOKE suddenly and for a 
confused moment coiddn’t remember 
where he was. W'hen he did an unex¬ 
pected but relaxing wave of pleasure 
swelled in his body because he recalled 
that he had almost a week’s vacation 
horn school to look lorwaicl to. Hesicles 
it was Satuiclay. He looked at his wrist- 
watch. II:,S(). 

Outside it was one ol those dull- 
bright fall days which made him want 
to do everything — and nothing. Ehere 
was a brisk, erratic breeze blowing and 
every once in a while a crisj) leal Ironi 
the l)ig poplar outside lell against the 
window with a light tap. .Sometimes he could even 
hear them hit the side of the house. 

He got up cpiic kly and dres.sed and then went into 
the little clownstaiis bathioom which was adjacent to 

Sketches by Jack Stringer 



R. 1). LOOMIS 

the sunpoivh. 

riu re were voiees in the kitchen and when he had 
linished \\a^hing and had eoinhed his hair he started 
d.icMi the hall in that direction. On the way he pas.sed 
Marttaiet's room. The door was open and he saw her 
leaning on the window sill looking out at the back- 

lie entered the room a lew steps. 

"(iood morning. Ciee, it's nice out today, isn’t it?” 

.She tinned to him with a start, just as she had 
earlier that morning when she was leaning close to 
the mirror, and her expression was almost the same, 
not startled but lar away, as if she were listening to 
somber music she liked. She glanced out the window 
once more. 

"I hate it." she said. 

“Oh. 1 don't.” 

She turned back to him and he felt somehow re¬ 
assured again when he saw that familiar, vexed yet 
bored look on her face. The lipstick was gone now 
and her month was drawn back slightly, not in a grin 
but in faint disgust. 

“It's all dying.” 

Then suddenly she brushed past him and out the 
tlocjr. When he reached the hall again she was gone. 

.\s he neared the kitchen the voices became more 
distinct, although he paid little attention to what 
they were .saying. He recognized his aunt’s voice, and 
then a lower, heavier one which he took to be his 
uncle’s, but it sounded as though he had a cold or a 
sore thi'oai. His uncle would be home, he knew, be¬ 
cause he didn’t work on Saturday. 

“but, Lenore,” the low voice said, hardly audible, 
“you’re not looking at this thing right.” 

Then his aunt; “There’s only one way to look at 

“lint I can’t stay there all the time. It’s . . . why, 
it's stupid.” 

“'S'on will until—well, until Andy goes back hmne. 

I hen yon can use the claybed, or we can get single 
beds.” Her vcjice seemed to become impatient and 
distraught. “WT’ve gone through all this for the last 
time. There’s no use talking about it anymore, 

.\ndy pirshed through the swinging door to the 
kitchen. When his aunt saw him she uttered a long 
“Well-1-1” and threw her aiiris about him. “How are 
yon, .\ndy?” she said. “.My, Icjok at him, Ralph!” 

His uncle then tcK;k him and held him at arm’s 
length. “Say, yon never stcjjj growing, do you?” He 
laughed and patted his shcjulder. 

Andy just grinned and Icmkecl at each of them in 


turn. There never seemed to be anything he could 
reply whenever he met people after a long time, even 
though he knew beforehand what they were going to 
say because it was always the same. 

'Til bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?” his aunt finally 

He nodded and smiled again. “Yes ... a little.” 

“Well now you just sit right down there and you 
can have anything you want. Do you still like Ral¬ 


“We bought some just for you—how are your fath¬ 
er and mother? And how was the trip?” 

“Oh, they’re all right—and the bus broke down. 
That’s why I didn’t get here.” 

“Oh, that’s too bad,” his uncle said. “We waited 
up and then decided you weren’t coming.” 

“Is that why you were on the sofa?” 


“I saw you sleej^ing there when I came this morn¬ 
ing. I thought maybe—” 

“Yes, that’s what it was,” his aunt interrupted. “He 
was waiting for you and then fell asleep.” Her voice 



became chiding. “And you know your uncle: once he 
gets asleep there’s no waking him.’’ 

Then his uncle said he had to take the car down¬ 
town to get it greased and he left. While he was eat- 
I ing his breakfast, Andy told his aunt all about his 
' parents and what had happened when the bus broke 
i down. 

“Well, that was an experience,” she said. “But it 
turned out all right, didn’t it?” 

' He nodded at her as he finished drinking his glass 
of milk. 

! “Boy, it was a good thing Margaret was up so I 
could get in. I couldn’t wake anybody up.” 

I “Yes, she’s up pretty early most of the time. I’d 
' think she’d want to stay in bed. There’s nothing to do 
; that early.” 

^ “She acted sort of funny.” 


He nodded. “I mean she seemed—well, she didn’t 
seem very glad to see me.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t pay much attention to ’that. 
She’s going through one of those stages, you know. 
She hates boys. She won’t have anything at all to do 
with them. But she’ll grow out of it.” 

“Say, I almost forgot,” he said. “Mother made me 
promise I’d write her a letter the minute I got here 
to tell her I was O.K. Do you have some paper I could 

“Any kind you want. Go ask Margaret where you 

can find some. I’d go but I want to get this place 
cleaned up before it gets too much for me. She’s 
jji'obably in her room.” 

Margaret wasn’t in her room but in one corner he 
saw a desk and he began looking through its drawers. 
The top middle drawer was deep and he reached far 
into the back of it. All he found were two Silver 
Screen magazines and one called Real Love. There 
was a picture of a boy movie star on the front of one 
of them, but his face was smudged with red marks. 
He was just putting the magazines back when he 
heard someone behind him. It was Margaret. 

“What are you doing there? Get away.” 

She came towards him c|uickly and he moved back. 

“Aunt Lenore told me to come in here and look 
for some paper. I want to write a letter home.” 

“Well, it’s not in there.” 

She led him to the secretary in the living room 
and showetl him where some writing paper was. Then 
she went back to her own room. 

He didn’t like to write letters so it took him a long 
ime to get started. Finally, in a slow, roiuided — 
but awkward—hand he began: 

Dear Mother, 

I came here late at 6 this morning because the bus 
broke doivn—btit I am alright. Everyone is [me here 
and / just got up and so not much has happened 
yet . . . 



T hese vines, being old, 

1 shall not try to save. 

I shall prune them with a knife-sharj) cpiick- 

And, as cjuickly, lling them from our sight 
So that their cankered uselessness will lie 
No longer in our view. 

What? You say perhaps they will bear fruit. 

That I’d wrong to spoil such healthy growth. 

Ah, but how deceptive is that growth: 

See how just below the bark already 

Lies the rot of age: were I to let 

These grow unpruned, what harvest could we reaj) 

From them but useless leaves and bitter grief? 

No, my love, these shoots, these 
Shall I leave. Look. Soft and green 
They push their way to birth and seek the warmth 
They never knew while lying in the earth 
(I'nwilling, cruel was the soil which tried to keep 
I'hem dee|) within its evil toils.) 

Fhese shoots, their suppliance shall 1 train, 

Protect from blighting winds, sustain 

From sudden droughts. On these shall our hope 

Be placed. 

J.4NUARY, 1949 





l.AIS COMICS lu)M\e to her clwelling 
\\’h;il sliall she have lor delight? 

(iornllouers. blue beyond telling, 
Roses, sweet lor the smelling, 

(aociises, rich lor the sight. 

Flowers were never lor .selling 
Ciriinson or purple or white 
WOrthv ol Cdais tonight. 

(dais comes home to her dwelling; 

What shall she have lor delight? 

■She shall have mtisic, im|)elling 
.Soltlv to, and excelling ol mortal or sjnite . . . 
Harmony dies in the swelling, 

Flowers die in the sight: 

(dais comes home to her chvelling: 

Wdiat shall she have lor delight? 


L.VIS, today we see the breath-of-spring 
Wheathing its stems w'ith waxen gold and 

■ Vnd bridal-wreath’s jjale dillidence, half in fright, 
Fimidly take the lawn. We feel the sting 
Of scarlet beauty in that smouldering thing, 
Fire-in-the-bnsh. Soon, drow'sily the night 
Ifrings smell of blooming trees, and murmurous, 

Half-ncjticed sounds—but w'hen sharp voices fling 

Far, far abroad wdiat Aristophanes 
Recorded long ago—that trenudous, shrill. 
High-palpitant frog-boast from a hidden spot: 

Step gently, Clais, lest we frighten these 
Precarious singers wdiom a frost may kill. 

And yet singing Time shall silence net. 


O F' COURSE,” Barabbas said, “they let me go 
And kept the Milk.sop to be crucified. 

I liat’s him there, in the middle. He denied 
1 he ancient ritual—said a man might know' 

Ciod’s kingdom in himself, and that a blow' 

Should never be returned, and that the pride 
Of priests w'as impious. Someone said he tried 
Fo the I'emple. Well, if that be so 
He earned his jierch. I’ake me; am I a saint? 

By Abraham, I’d rob a caravan 
1 omorrow; I’m not .scjneamish, but I’m shocked 
Fhat any (ew should blaspheme, and attaint 
'Fhe 'Femjfle, priests and Sabbath—such a man 
Comes rightly to the—Cod is not mocked!” 

.\KW.\tA.\ IvKV WbiiTK, C.lidniiKm of llie English Df'fxirlmeul for nititiy years until his death last De- 
fember, was a member of the class of 1913 at the old Trinity (College. Elis scholarly interests cetjtered 
about folhlore and the Emglish romantic poets, but he. was often the source of aid and friendly 
criticism to the members of the staff of the Arc;hivi', and to the members of his oerse-writing classes. 





Drawing by die McLean 

room was dulled 
I by a nearly translucent 
gloom; there were no 
paintings on the walls, noth¬ 
ing of startling or jdeasing 
color. All the lurniture had 
a definite and tangible shape 
and every piece was placetl 
Hush to the walls; the bed, the 
chairs, the table, leaving the 
middle of the room free and 
uncluttered. And George sat 
in a chair with a thick book 
in his lap. His fingers moved 
rapidly across the ])agcs; his 
eyes looked vacantly at the 
ceiling, because he was rest¬ 
ing his head on the back of 
the chair. A frown was on his 
lace and he closed the book 
impatiently and said, “Ugh,” 
aloud with disgust. He got 
tip and put a record on the 
phonograph and sat down again and .settled himsell 
in the chair and listened and dreamed and thought, 
his dreams and thoughts following the tem|jo of the 
music. And the music swelled and swelled to a finale 
of re.sounding cymbals anti kettle tlrums. d bere was a 
moment’s silence. Ehen the arm of the phonograph 
began weaving anti .stratching at the entl of the recoril 
anti the spell was brttken. 

“Cieorge,” his mtither .saitl outsitle the tloor. 

“^'es. Gt)me in,” he .saitl. 

He knew that she hatl waitetl until the retorti was 
over befttre speaking. He heartl the tltior open and 
heartl her walk aerttss the rtiom anti stoj) in front ol 

“Let’s gt) to tlinner,” she saitl, anti took his haiul 
in hers. 

(.eorge withthew his hand 
gently anti stootl up. 

“All right.” 

.She put her hantl uutler 
his arm anti pressetl it lightly. 

“Are you enjoying ytiin 
vacation?” she saitl. 

Cieorge saitl that he was 
anti they walketl Irom the 


.\ EHER - thank - Ehee - 
lor - these - n - all - Thy - 
blessings - .\men.” 

His mt)tbei clattered the 
tlishes as she began to put 
fot)tI on tbe plates. 

“The days are really getting 
short now. It’s almost dark 
and it’s onl\ six o’clock,” his 
inothei said. 

“Goltl too,” his lather said, “(iold anti gr;iy.” 

Ehey all ate in silence. Ehe first moments of the 
first meal at vacation were always barren. .Sterile. 
Ftirtetl. Even the stotk tjtiestions wotdtl not ctmie 
until later. 

“How tio you like your .school?” his lather said. 
Ehat was one ol them. 

“l ine. I'here ate a lot of nice peojile there. Mv 
history prolessor is swell.” 

Ehey still .say “your sthool” giving it a spetial 

“1 like it a lot.” 

“Hasn't (leorge grown, Ered? Siiue September, I 

“Looks bigger,” his father saitl. 

Ehey ate in silence again. 


Gtn.BERT Smiih, an associate editor of the .Archive, makes his first 
appearance in this issue. A senior from (ireenshorn, he is an English 
major and a member of D). Blackburn's creatii’e writing class. 

JAMhARV, l‘H9 



■ How's ilic food uj) ihcre?" 

"So-so. " 

"Not like homo: not like yoiir Mother's food, I'll 

"No. sir. " 

■■ This hioecoli is ilelicions, Florence.” 

"1 hanks, ilear: 1 sjoi it at the curb market this 
morning. Oh ves. 1 ran into Margaret Spillman at the 
cake stall and she said X’irginia was home from college. 
She asketl if (ieorge was coming home this time and 
1 saiil ves, todav. She saitl \'irginia was changed a lot. 
.Siu)l)hish and wild. Yon remember \'irginia Spillman, 
ilon't YOU. George? Fhe little girl that used to come to 
vonr birthday jrarties?” 


George laid down his fork. 


1 1 HINK I 11 go for a walk,” George said. 

"But George it's eleven-thirty and it’s dark out,” 
his mother said. 

"Oh, Florence, he knows the way,” his lather said. 

He frowned at his tvife, meaning. You made a 

"Of course,” his mother said. “Let me get your 
coat. The night air shoidd make you sleep good.” 

George went out the door and turned up the street. 
He walked with a of step; he had walked 
this way many times. He drew into his lungs a breath 
of cold air and put his tongue to his teeth and they 
felt like little cakes of unmelting ice. The feeling w^as 
delightful. He knew the street; it w'ent for a long w'ay 
without intersection and had very little traffic. He 
walked along with complete confidence. This fa 
miliarity with the street gave him his first feeling of 
real happiness since he had come home. And he 
walked along feeling the happiness and the coldness, 
not thinking about anything. He liked it that w^av. 
To have a mind free from thought w^as his idea of a 
real holiday. 

Fhe sound of rapid footsteps caused his muscles to 
tense. He immediately felt the presence of another 
person coming toward him; he could almost feel the 
space of air between them becoming more compre.s.sed 
as they came closer together. The heels clicked on the 
cold concrete like the measurings of a c|uickened pulse. 

"Henv cl’ya do,” a man said. 

"Hrnv’re you.” 

"Dark night,” the man .said. 

d he man didn’t stop walking. George said, “Yes 
it is,” but he knew’ the man didn’t hear him. He 
could hear the steps dwindling in sound behind him. 

But a tvonclerful night, he thought, a wonderful 
night. He drew' in a deep breath of cold air again. 
His lungs accepted the air with delicious pain. 

Fie heard an automobile coming down the street. 
It passed him and he heard it come to a stop ahead 
of him. Voices floated toward him. There was a plead¬ 
ing voice and an angry voice. 

“Oh come on, Ginnie.” 

“No thanks. I’ll w'alk.” 

“Don’t be like that, Ginnie. It’s dark as pitch out 
here and a long w'ay home.” 

“1 don’t care, I can walk. Better company that 

“You’re drunk. Better come on.” 


It was a scream. 

“OK, then.” 

The car door slammed shut and the exhaust 
belched and the gears stripped and the car was gone. 

George walked swiftly on. He hoped to pass the 
girl, Ginnie, unnoticed. A fear enveloped him; the 
girl was a barrier, an unseen barrier that he knew' 
he coidcl not cross. 

“Hey,” she said. 


Her voice was gruff and broken. 

“Where am I?” she said. 

“On Garland Drive.” 

“My God, W'ay out here. Where’s the bus stop?” 

“Down at the other end of the street. But they’ve 
.sto]rped running; it’s midnight.” 

“Midnight. God. It’s black as pitch. I’ll call a 
taxi. Say, aren’t there any houses on this street? I 
can’t see any lights.” 

“Dow'n the street: that way.” 

He pointed toward his house. 

“I don’t see any lights,” she said. 

He heard her take a step, then stumble and fall. 
“Oh hell,” she said. 

“I’ll show' you,” George said. “Give me your 

He bent over toward the place where the “Oh hell” 
had come from and felt a warm soft hand dose around 
his fingers. He felt the w'eight of her hand pnll as she 
got to her feet. 


She took her hand out of his and hooked it under 
his arm and they started back down the street. 

“I’ll have to hold on. I guess I’m drunk.” 

“It isn’t far,” he said. 

“Good. I’m pooped. Why don’t they put some 
lights on this street. Black as pitch.” 




' She pulled heavily on his arm. He felt as if he were 
dragging her bodily down the street. He heard her 
sobbing. Just little groans that sounded rather hope¬ 
less. Her hand left his arm. He stopped. 

“ ’Sense me. I’m drunk. I always cry when I’m 
drunk. I feel awful and I can’t see. Not a thing.” 

She fell suddenly against him. He put out his 
arms to hold her. He was surprised to feel her wet 
cheek against his mouth. She was nearly as tall as he 
was; he had felt so much taller when they were walk¬ 
ing along. He held her arms trying to keep her on 
her feet. 

“These trees knock out what little light there 
would be, I guess.” His lips brushed her cheek again 

unsteadily, and he could taste the salt of her tears and 
smell her hot breath. Alcohol. The smell gagged his 
own breath. 

“That’s right. Maybe I’m not too drunk.” 

He took one of her arms and began to walk again. 
But they had taken only a few' steps before (feorge 
stopped. It was nearly over. 

“Here we are,” he said. 

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t see. 1 still don’t. There’re 
no lights.” 

“My folks are probably in bed.” 

“I’ll be very (juiet, very, very quiet.” 

As he started to lead her up tlie walk, it seemed 
as if a holiday were about to end. 



janie was a nigger, lawd 
who loved her dice and gin 
janie w'as a nigger, law'd 
w’ho loved her dice and gin 
she uz a leanbacked woman 
til de ha’d life stove her in 

janie played her music, lawd 
from legere st to (juinn 
janie played her music, lawd 
from legere st to (piinn 
she uz a mean jazztime mama 
til de ha’d life stove her in 

janie W'as a lover, lawil 
hot’ sanctioned and in sin 
janie was a lover, lawd 
hot’ sanctioned and in sin 
she musta loved a lionnert men 
til de ha’d life stove her in 
but janie was a gambler, lawd 
what knowed she couldnt win 

but janie was a gambler, lawd 
what knowed she couldnt win 
she played de ha’tl life mighty close 
until it stove her in 

JANUARY, 1949 


>- lilt' ( ou)Sfs (it Dtilic Uiiixu-rsity most sought ajti'r by English majors are those 
tauiiht l>\ Dr. W'ii.i.ivm Bi.ackiu'RN. The friendliness and informality—extending 
lilt- sereniii oi tea—leith lehich he condui ts his rreatii’e leriting course hax>e made it especially popular, and 
;‘‘e course has alxea\s been an indispensable source of material for the Archive. ATarcia Norc:ross, an associate 
editor of the .Krchise. is xeell hnoxen for her slxetches. xehich luwe appeared in all Duke publications. She will 
-raduate in Icbruarw 



T in-. ROOM is a rare conibinalion oi otfiee and 
ilassrooni. I'liere is a large table in the center 
with chairs around it on three sides and a desk 
at die other end. A bookcase or two, a movable 
blackboard, two primitive paintings and a map oi 
l’ari> on the walls give the place a tonch oi distinc¬ 
tion. I'he room rellects the personality oi the man 
sitting in one oi the chairs, listening to a student 
reading his manuscript. He is listening in the hope 
oi finding a new Styron, Greet, or Davenport (all re¬ 
cent graduates at work on novels) ior this year. 

Hut alter listening in this room to student at¬ 
tempts at cvriting ior almost tiventy years, Mr. Hlack- 
bnrn has come to the conclusion that the commonest 
error among undergraduates is their beliel that writ¬ 
ing can be done in a vacuum. He says that all his 
successkd students in composition have been instinc- 
tivelv enthusiastic readers oi books. He olten points 
out that students should remember Jane Austen, who 
published her first novel at the age oi twenty-one, 
but who once ex])ressetl the wish that she had written 
less and read more in her younger years. 

.Mr. Hlackburn deplores the use oi the jrhrase 
“creative writing.” “It’s tocj high hat.” He preiers 
the more modest word “compcjsition,” ior it implies 
exactly what he is trying to teach—design in writing. 
He believes the jnirpose oi a ccmrse in writing should 
be ciitical rather than “creative.” He is content ii 
his students, through the discipline oi comjrosition, 
increase their powers oi recc)gni/ing a good bccok when 
they see one. 

Hut sc>me (>\ his students go iarther than achiev¬ 
ing merely a ciitical insight into writing, as w'itness 
(Jne and Twenty, a volume oi verse and prose written 
by Duke undergraduates and graduates, edited by 
•Mr. Hlackburn in 191.5. It was distinctly a ccj-opera- 
tive venture. .Students working under the w'oocl-en- 
graver ( laire Leighton, then an instructor in Line 

Arts, designed and illustrated the book; a student 
committee raised the money necessary to finance the 
first edition by selling nearly six-hundred subscrip¬ 

Listening to manuscripts, Mr. Blackburn finds out 
a lot about the lives oi his students. So during tea, 
which is traditional in his writing classes, we thought 
we might turn the tables on him and get him to talk 
oi some oi his experiences. 

He was born oi American missionary parents at 
Hrumiah, Persia. This city is situated on the Plateau 
oi Iran, surrounded by high, snow-covered mountains. 
The Blackburns lived in a mud house, carpeted with 
Persian rugs, within the missionary compound, which 
is a walled-in space inside the city. Liie in the com¬ 
pound was sale, and generally it was safe enough out¬ 
side oi it. “But I still remember the horror I ielt as a 
child in being told oi how one oi the medical mis¬ 
sionaries had been waylaid and murdered and his 
body leit on the snow by some fierce nomadic tribes¬ 
men named Kurds.” 

Probably the mcwt exciting event in his childhood 
was his iourth birthday party. As a special treat each 
oi the guests was given a ride on a camel. Last summer 
he met one oi his iormer playmates who remembered 
the camel ride, but he admits that he was a little 
vague both about the grown-up jjlaymate and the 

In 190-1 the Blackburns made the long trip to 
.Vmerica. Travel in tho,se days was still medieval. The 
iamily came by caravan, putting up at caravansaries 
ior the night during the thousand-mile trek irom 
Persia to the Black Sea. They crossed irom Batum 
to Odessa in a small steamer, and according to his 
mother he woidd ask at every port, “Is this America?” 

On their way through England, he was permitted 
to play with .some lion cubs in the Tower oi London. 
He smiled wryly anti .said, “It is irom that event that 




I date niy realization ol the seriousness ol life — and 
ot lions.” 

Mr. Blackburn sjjent his boyhood in Seneca, South 
Carolina, a small town on the main line ol the South¬ 
ern Railway. He remembers sometimes hearing at 
midnight the lamed No. 97, crack mail train, Atlanta 
to New York, blow lor the crossing. “She was going 
down grade, making ninety miles an hour.” 

He ionnd out early that he was not cut out tcj be 
a salesman. Long before the Kuller Brush Man at¬ 
tained his present celebrity, he tried his luck at selling 
brooms in a house-to-house canvass. He also tried 
dispensing The K)i(mledge Hook wlierever he could 
find innocent takers. “Selling brooms or books is a 
good way of di.scovering the .sales-resistance—and the 
kindness of the world.” 

He attended Furman Ibiiversity in Greenville, 
South Carolina. Two of his college contemporaries, 
Lewis Patton and David T. Smith, are also now pro¬ 
fessors on the Duke faculty. Soon after the beginning 
of his sophomore year, the Student Army Training 
Corps was organized. His commanding officer hatl 
written the then popular marching .song It’s Not the 
Pack That You Carry on Your Back . . . It’s the Last 
Long Mile, but that song didn’t 
ease the weight of the pack, even 
for the first mile. When he was 

■ ahout to he .sent to an artillery 
O.'F.C., the war obligingly came 
to an end one November night. 

He began his oratorical ca¬ 
reer back in .Seneca, when he 
won a medal for reciting with 
grandiose gestures “The (ieor- 
gia Volunteer.” He went on with 
this activity in high .school and 
college and will show medals on 
ret]nest. But with the general 
decline of Southern oratory, he 
lost faith in the value of emot¬ 
ing in public. 

; His PARF.N'FS hoped that 

, he would follow the family tra- 

■ dition and become a minister. His father was a mis- 
■sionaiy and his jiaternal gramllather had been a 
1 distinguished diurdi histoiian and college president. 

Mr. Blackburn was brought up on the Bible and finds 
' the ignorance of this book among jnesent-day under- 
I grailuates ap|)alling. .\ few years ago he was sho.''ked 
to read in a sophomore cpiiz a refereme to the (toss 
as “the reli‘>ious am'le.” 

He says he drifted into teaching. After winning 
a University Scholarship in the (iraduate School at 
Vale, he got a job as an instructor of freshman Eng¬ 
lish at the Carnegie Institute of Technology in Pitts¬ 
burgh. 1 hat year he won a Rhodes .Scholarship from 
.South Carcjlina. In I92.S he went to Ciermany to study 
lor a jneliminary examination at Oxford. 

The gieat inflation, by which the (ieiinan (iov- 
ernment wiped out the national debt, was going strong 
that summei. When Mr. Blackburn landed in Ham¬ 
burg in July, he received 238,000 marks for a dollar. 
When he left lor Oxfcjrcl in October, the mark stood 
well over .several billion to the dollar. Bankers were 
hard jjressed even tcj keep count of the money in 
their tills; .some university professors, nevei highly 
paid in Germany as elsewhere, committed suicide in 
desjxiir; and Gommunists burned hayiicks in fields 
outside the town. He was the only person in the 
university town wheie he spent the summer who 
coidcl alloicl to eat in the best hotel. “Many a night 
I sat down, the only person in the dining loom, to a 
steak dinner, hoping I would not be shot by .some 
hungry (ierman out of sheer envy. .\nd walking home 
clown the dark streets with police 
clogs barking from almost every 
yard did not lessen my leeling 
of guilt over being well-fed.” 

He reached flarwich, Eng¬ 
land, one cold October morning 
just at dawn. I he immigration 
olhc iai, displeased with the small 
amount of money he was carry¬ 
ing, thought he’d better sit on 
tbe boat lor a while with the 
other undesirable aliens. “.\ncl 
there I sat, almost lor the whole 
day, not liking my introduction 
to England at all. It seems that 
I was suspected ol heing a brick¬ 
layer just at a time when unem¬ 
ployment in England was .se\ere 
and when the government was 
making every eliort to keep 
comjieting on the English mar- 

He looks bac k on his three years at Oxlord as being 
the happiest college years jiossible. He remembers it 
as a city ol infinite chaim, and he savs he will never 
lorget the cpiadrangles and gardens, the walks on the 
banks of the rivers, the bookshojis, and the innumer¬ 
able bells liuging on .Sundav morning. When he 

[AMI ARY, 1919 



\vn)tf the cDinpreliensive examination in English 
language ami liieraiuie, he won Second C'.lass llon- 
oui>. t)nl\ three Americans in the history ol the 
Rhodes Scholarships have tvon ‘‘Firsts” in English, 
whiih lati consoled him over his "Secoiul.” 

W hen Mr. Hlackhnrn arrived at Dtike in the sum¬ 
mer ot the late President Few took him out 

to the plateau where West C’.amptis now is. “Let me 
show von where we're going to htiild the Oxford of 
the South." he .said. .Mr. Hlackhnrn was among those 
who saw the forest cleared away, thotisands of workers 
swarm into Durham, carload after carload of mate¬ 
rials arrive, and finally the skeleton strticttire give 
wav to magnificent stone Iniildings. Then he wrote 
at Few's retpiest a book, TZ/e Architecture of Duke 
I'tiicersitw Time maga/ine termed it “an expensive 
little hook by English Professor William Blackburn, 
detailing how thorotighly Dukensian the University 
is." .\ paper-bound issue of this book used to be 
available to visitors at the Chapel, f)tit it is now otit 
of print except in the de luxe edition. 

In 19-f5 he went to Florence, Italy, for a semester 
and tatight (il’s at the university center for the Medi¬ 
terranean Theater. He described his experiences in 

an article, “Flight to Firenze,” ptiblished in the Amer- I 
icau Oxouinu. He has pidtlished other articles on f 
Matthew Arnold and Thomas Carlyle in learned jour¬ 
nals and is now working on an edition of the unpub- I 
lished letters of Joseph Conrad. I 

Lest it be supposed that Mr. Blackburn’s only | 
interest lies in his creative writing classes, it should ' 
Ije mentioned that he also teaches a section of Repre- 
sentative Writers anti a course in Elizabethan and i 
Seventeenth-century literature. Anyone w'ho has ever j 
heartl him read Shakespeare’s sonnets aloud has no ^ 
tloubt as to his zeal for teaching, and many students 
swear that his classes in Elizabethan literature are the 
most interesting they have ever been in because he is 
able to make the prose and poetry live again through 
his love for his subject. 

He is one of the few professors w'ho make a special 
effort to know their students personally, and he often 
entertains his classes informally at his home. Mr. 
Blackburn disagrees completely with Samuel John¬ 
son’s complaint of his experience as a teacher—“One 
day contains the whole of my life.” He hasn’t found 
it so. 



backing my (carefully) consciousness 
out of the half-garage of sleep 
i look upon my fate and curse 

and taking up my sox begin to dress 

ja fails ma toilette—part my hair 
and pulling out the basin’s plug 
i wash the night’s still warm 
and twitching dreams 
fm down the drain 
and out (of sight) 

(onfronting the now (painfully) 
impartial mirror i 
assume identity 
my fellow-man 

and autobiographize (myself) 
in the oh but ordinary 
knotting (of) my tie 

i settle my coat and Today 

upon my shoulders with a single 
motion and 
i pause 

to run a mental hand across 
the ? closely shaven stubble 
of Yesterday’s ideas, and i feel 
the (bleeding) nick 
where the cosmic barber “time” 
had trembled with the fear 
of being; and had come too near 
my (quite by accident) unsold 

with the breakfast coffee, cigarettes 
the body remembers the mind forgets 
and the self’s erased 
and used too often palimpsest 
is ready to receive 
the yet unmeaning shorthand 
of another Day and Night 

hand me the funnies Will you dear? 




^ WWds an^ Pictures 



J AZZ IS a word that has hcen much touted and 
much misused, within the music world as well 
as without. lu its true unpolluted meaning, the 
word “Ja/z” should convey that extemporaneous lorm 
ol musical interpretation which has come to be the 
basis lor all the spiderweb ol music lorms which are 
included in the broad term “.Vmerican Folk Music.” 
For the personal interpretations ol black notes on 
white paper by individual artists, the hleiuling ol 
sounds and tones, ol reed and brass, ol Alro-Cuhan 
rhythms and CIreole Spirituals by the sj)eciric genius, 
the singular personality, have inspired the great 
‘trends” ol American music: Swing, hillbilly, “com¬ 
mercial ja/z,” and even the .so-called “popular music.” 
It is the to the individual artist then, who interprets 

the simple melody according to his imagination, mood, 
versatility, and skill with his instrument, that we (an 
attribute the credit lor our only real (ontrihution to 
the international, intercentury progress ol musi( . . . 

The very same melody, the basic theme as it is 
called, (au never he played exactly the same by two 
cliflerent artists, or even by the same artist lor that 
matter, as true jazz is extemporaneous, emotional, and 
alive, fust as the .same emotion is never identically 
recaptured, so the music, the expression ol that emo¬ 
tion, may never be identically repeated. 

Lionel Hampton is one ol the lew remaining “die- 
hards” ol the music world who woidcl rather play the 
music he leels in his heart in a clingy cellar than 

JANUARY, 1949 



l);ist;irdi/c his emotions in the tlanee 
halls. Many siiperh artists have been 
unable to resist the tem])tation ol 
lame ami lortune that comes Irom 
pleasing the fickle public which goes 
(la/y over “Heartaches” one month 
and forgets it lor “Nature Boy” the 

But strangely enough even the 
man who plays trtie Jazz nowadays 
is not starving, lor thotigh it doesn’t 
pay too much, the thrill of playing 
with sincerity, of releasing oneself, 
of the ecstatic faces of screaming, 
weaving, dancing, sweating specta¬ 
tors makes it worth-while. Lionel 
Hampton and his orchestra pictured 
on these pages are only a .segment of 
those true artists throughout the 
cotmtry who are finding the release 
for their emotions through notes and 
bars, who are following their chosen 
mode of expression with sincerity, 
extracting that black note from be¬ 
tween its mesh of bars and injecting 
the life of emotional feeling into it. 

Hamp. beating tom-tom (left) and vibes (above left) 
with trumpeter “Bop” Stewart, lias third top band in 
(be country, rated just liehind Ellington and Kenton. 

' 1 



Above, smiling sax-man grins approval as the live- 
man trumpet section hlends chords lor the ear as 
well as patterns for the cameta. Below, ecstatic 
saxophonist plays on his back as I lamp brings 
down bouse with Flyin’ flame! (Note fellow mu- 
sitian fanning him with sheet music to cool him 
olf, groping hands of “sent” spettators, lower left.) 

.SiiEDDiNt; THEIR cxtATs after the second set, the band 
claps, yells, stamps, marches around. Hamp (above) 
eggs .solo alto-man on as he stpieals through his reetl. 


I J.4NIIARV, 1949 





Sketch by Sally Byrne 

T he moon was on rockers that night. A fat 
golden moon tilting back and forth in the sky, 
gavlv irresponsible and maybe a trifle devilish. 
And the air was clear—almost no atmosphere at all. 
Just a cool s])ace between the moon and the maple 
tree by the front porch. 

.\s the moon rocked back and forth, tiny golden 
scales drifted down through space and settled on the 
topmost leaves of the ma])le tree, tipping them like 
balance jjans until little heaps of moon-scales would 
slide off and scatter dotvn through the branches to the 
ground. A few of them settled on the girl-shadow’s hair, 
causing laughter when the boy-shadow tried to brush 
them off. 

\\hthin the darkened house, the slender arms of 
the clock on the mantle piece stretched toward one 
o'clock. Soon the poised brass hammer would fall on 
the chime, sounding a disconcerting bong. 

The girl-hand urging toward the wooden steps 
was jiressingly constrained, and the shadows lingered 
briefly, as always, before parting under the maple tree, 
jets of pain from the tiny w'arm girl-hand needled up 
the boy-arm. 

'I'he boy-mouth twisted. The moon-scales resting 
on it had suddenly become astringent. Lunar alum. 
“Why?” asked the girl-voice. 

The scales of alum fell off. Only the tightness 
remained. “Just thinking.” 
lieme/nber? Yes. 

Eveiythijig? Yes. 

That first evening? Of course. 

It’s been a long time? A long long time. 

And I said? You thought I was wonderful. 

And you said? The same thing. 

And / said? You hoped I’d always think so. 

And? I always have. 

And? It’s been so perfect—a friendship I’ll always 
be thankful for. 

More alum, twistingly sour and biting. 

“Please tell me,” the girl-voice said. 

What was there to tell? 

Dancing under red and purple lights across a pol¬ 
ished strangely-slanting floor while saxophones insinu¬ 
ated nasal-yet-somehow-beautiful melodies, boy and 
girl images hanging head downward in the dim ceiling- 
mirrors, on summer days the sky had been a jig-saw 
puzzle of blue and white reticulated by zig-zag pat¬ 
terns of green leaves, all through the house not a 
creature was stirring, snow that lay maidenly beneath 
the stars voicing tiny squeaking complaints against 
heavy shoes and against fog-spurts of laughter, trees 
consumed by October, flaring up in a last burst of 
red-brilliant life, crisp leaves rustled down through the 
branches and crackled beneath walking feet, girl-hands 
shuffled through the leaves and threw handfuls up, 

Please tell me, mocked the boy-mind. 

Months before, the bits of colored ribbon and sug¬ 
gestions of perfume and the soft warmth of flesh touch¬ 
ing flesh—fragments that careened in a jittery whirl¬ 
ing dance in the boy-mind—had become fused into a 
dense hammer-like entity, pounding unmercifully un¬ 
til the boy-voice spoke. 

Fear—God only knew what of—had wavered in 
the girl-eyes. Perhaps the whole thing had become a 
china ornament sitting on a knick-knack table in the 
girl-mind—an ornament that was regarded with ad¬ 
miration and dusted each day in keeping with a female 
passion for neatness and order. Afraid of chipping a 
corner off the china ornament. 

The girl-voice had been pleading. “It’s been so 
perfect up till now. Can’t it stay that way?” 

Now the moon rocked back and forth in gay taunt¬ 
ing derision, and a stirring of the atmosphere fanned 
the shadows beneath the maple tree, ruffling slightly 
the girl-shadow’s hair. A faint perfume fragrance 

Norman K. Nelson is a veteran contributor to the Archive. 
llis poems have appeared in many previous issues. He is a 
graduate student, xoriting his thesis on Gerard Manley Hopkins. 




awakened within the boy-shadow a multitude of name¬ 
less little things that stirred like a swarm of bees 
seeking freedom. 

In the boy-mind pounded the hammerhead of yel¬ 
low silk hair ribbon, smooth finger-tips, a burst of 
cinnamon-flavored laughter, and countless other feels, 
smells, and sounds compressed to a mallet of unbeliev¬ 
able density. And all the time, the swarming tickling 

“You’re trembling,” the girl-voice said. “Is some¬ 
thing the matter?” 

The boy-mind half decided 
that the little-things were maybe’s. 

Surely yes’s or no’s would not be 
nearly so tormenting. 

“Remember,” the boy - voice 
said, “one time I tried to tell you 
something. Here under the maple 
tree. Do you remember?” 

The girl-eyes became wider 
and glistened with the moon-flecks 
that drifted dowm on them. The 
girl-lips moved hesitantly, quiver- 
ingly, but without speech. 

The hammer struck a violent 
final blow, smashing the swarm¬ 
ing maybe’s into crystallized no’s 
and tightening the boy-lips into a 
paralyzed smile. 

“I was crazy then. No wonder 
you were surprised.” 

The girl-face still turned up 
uncertainly, eyes wide. Air-fila¬ 

ments w'eaved in among wisps of girl-hair, scattering 
the golden moon-scales. 

“You were right about the whole thing,” the boy- 
voice said. 

On the mantle-piece in the living room, the brass 
hammer fell on the chime of the clock, and a monodic 
tone vibrated out through the door across the dark¬ 
ened porch to the maple tree. 

Boy and girl lips touched briefly, as they had at 
the ends of countless other evenings, and the girl- 
shadow merged with the darkness 
of the porch. 

The boy-shadow moved swift¬ 
ly down the street. I’he moon 
had stopped rocking and now 
drifted westward in a sky barren 
of clouds, a vast expanse of pale 
sky and lonely. 

The girl - shadow remained 
merged with the darkness of the 
house, aiul the boy-shadow con¬ 
tinued dowm the street, farther 
and farther away. few of the 
tiniest moon-scales had somehow 
sifted into the girl-mind where 
they remained for years afterward. 
And often in the girl-mind two 
shadow-figures stood under a 
maple tree, and their voices said 
the things that really should have 
been said that night when the 
moon w'as on rockers. 



I F WE do not meet again, why, we shall smile. 
If not, why, then, this parting was well made.” 
together we have laughed for one brief mile 
.\long this road that branches into shade 
Before, ami disappears in mist behind. 

From out the mist our lonely ways we fought, 

.\nd being out, and thus no longer blind. 

We filled our eyes with all the sunshine wrouglit. 
We shared the greenest hills, the tallest trees, 
Philo-sophers, opinions, and a dream. 

Now there’s a Destiny we must appease 
By parting; here the heartache of the Scheme. 

But all that you could be you’ve been to me, 
,\nd tears shall never be our legacy. 

JANUARY, 1919 


American Men of Letters 

Often called the foremost dramatist of 
America, Eugene O’Neill is noio in 

Irs sixties and it is time for an over-all critical I'ieu' of his n’orh. Always dissatisfied with the conventional 
theat e. he has almost made his own tradition, and yet it is such an extraordinary one that no other playwright 
has t ied to iollow him—at least with an\ success. Amazingly enough, each of his plays .shows some new devel¬ 
opment in the mind of its author, and in his later plays especially he .seems to exhibit an even broader nnder- 
\t(itidini:, than before. \’ir(.il Black was born in Manitoba. Canada, but was reared in South Spitzenburg. He 
:s one of the fexe ( '.reek majors at Duke and plans to join the staff of the I’iger’s Eye upon graduation next June. 



^“■^HE BOBl'LAR romantic concejition of the 
I writer has always been tliat he lives a lull and 
adventurous life and then settles down later to 
write of it. \’ery few writers, however, follow’ this 
pattern. Eugene Oladstone O’Neill is one ot the few. 

Born in New York on October 16, 1888, in a hotel 
on what is now Times S(|uare, his early childhood 
was spent touring the country with his father, Janies 
O’.Neill, who was enjoying perennial triumph in the 
lead role of The Count of Monte Cristo. Thus, from 
the verv beginning, (3’Neill was in intimate contact 
with the theatre. 

Never a studious youth, he entered Princeton in 
11)08 and llunketl out the same year because he had 
oveniit all of his classes. His heavy drinking during 
this period has become almost legendary, but O’Neill 
is <|ui(k to state that it was not as bad as some stories 
indie ate. 

.After working for a year and a half in a New York 
mail-<jrder house, he and a friend took a boat to the 
llemduras to look for gold. I'hey found no gold but 
O'.N'eill ((Hitracted malaria. He returnetl to the States 
and worked for a short time as assistant manager of 
The White Sister in which his father was one of the 
stars. iSpecifitally, he watched the ticket .seller to 
make sure he didn’t cheat.) But this life was too 
tame Icir him and soon he .sailed again, this time to 
Buenos Aires. There, by misrepresenting his abilities, 
he cdilained employment as a draftsman. He cjuit 
alter a short time to go to work sorting hides lor the 
•Singer Sewing Packing Company. But he .soon dis¬ 
covered that he was recjuired to learn all the parts of 
every machine Singer made, and he shipped again as 

an ordinary seaman on a British tramp steamer bound 
for Durban, South Africa, and then later as an able- 
bodied seaman on an American line. 

Back in the United States in 1912 he acted small 
parts in his father’s company and then went to w'ork 
as a newspaper reporter in New London, Connecticut, 
often contributing light verse. Since leaving Prince¬ 
ton he had been at various times a seaman, an actor, 
a bum, and a new'spaper man. At the end of that 
year he sullered a mild case of tuberculosis and was 
forced to go to a sanitorium for five months. Here it 
was that he began reading Strindberg, whom he ad¬ 
mits to be his strongest inlluence. After “thinking 
it over’’ he decided to devote his life to playwriting 
and a few months after leaving the sanitorium he 
wrcite his first one-act play. 

His father was willing to give the boy a chance to 
prove himself and in I9M allowed O’Neill to enroll 
in George Baker’s famous “47 Workshop’’ at Harvard. 
His work there was not outstanding, but O’Neill 
always felt that Professor Baker at that time was do¬ 
ing more than any other man to encourage young 
dramatists in a world relatively hostile to new play¬ 
wrights and new ideas. Certainly a greater inlluence, 
however, came from the Provincetown Players (an 
outpost of Greenwich Village), which O’Neill joined 
in 1916. Mary Heaton Vorse, one of the founders of 
the Provincetown grouji, feels that the immediate 
recognition his work was given there had an “incal¬ 
culable elfect on his sensitive, creative talent.” He 
never had to worry abcjut commercial producers or 
accepted stage conventions. His first play to be pro¬ 
duced, Hound East for Cardiff, prcjbably never again 




had such an interesting jiei fni inance as on the old 
wharf at Provincetown. Susan Glaspell wrote cjf it 

riie sea liad been good to Eugene O'Neill. It was there 
for his opening. Ehere was a fog, just as the script de¬ 
manded. fog hell in the harhor. The tide was in, and it 
washed under us and around, sjjraying through the holes 
in the floor, giving us the rhythm and the flavor of the 
sea while the hig dying sailor talked to his friend Doris of 
the life he had always wanted deep in the land, where 
vou'd never see a ship or smell the sea. 

In 1920 Beyond the Horizon was produced on 
Broadway and won the Pulitzer Prize. Dttring the 
next two years nine O’Neill plays were seen by New 
York audiences, loitr more being prochtced on Broad- 
w'ay in the single year of 1921. 


H ETHER or neat Beyutid the Horizon is 
O’Neill’s best play makes little diflerence; it remains 
one of the most importatit landmarks in modern 
theatre. Backed by uncjitestionable dramatic truth, 
the play stepjied boldly from the 
conventions of its time and showed 
that good intenticjns do not always 
give happy resitks and that super¬ 
ficially evil action dcjes not always 
lead to punishment, lip to that 
time audiences had demanded a 
hajfpy ending and a strict adher¬ 
ence to an almost Puritanical code 
of ethics. In a way. Beyond the 
Horizon freed drama from sterecj- 
typecl conclusions and morals. Here 
too O’Neill struck a theme which 
was to occur almost without excep¬ 
tion iff his later plays; the falsity of 
;he “romantic ideal,” the tragedy of 
jeople who cannot accept the 
A’orlcl of reality. (Michael Cajze — 
he hero in Welded — in a way is 
he prototype of these O’Neill char- 
icters. He has “the forehead of a 
hinker, the eyes of a dreamer, the 
lose and mouth of a .sensualist” — 

|i condition which, having irrecon- 
dlable elements, brings tragedy to 
lis life.) In Beyond the Horizoti, 
wo brothers, Robert and .\ndrew 
dayo, wheat farmers, are forced by circumstances to 
ive the life the other wishes. Robert, sensitive and 
intelligent, falls in love with a neighbor girl, marries 
fer and stays on the farm, while Andrew, whose 

temperament is more suited to farm life, dej)arts on 
a sea voyage that Robert was to have taken. Robert’s 
spirit is killed by the plain life and Andrew' loses all 
his money in wheat speculation, gambling with the 
thing he used to love to create. .\11 the characters find 
tragedy, especially Robert, by trying to live “beyond 
the horizon.” Dying from tuberculosis, Robert tells 
his wife and brother: “You mustn’t feel sorry for me. 
Don’t you see I’m happy at last—free—free!—freed 
from the farm—free to wander on and on. . . . I’ve 
won my trip—the right to release—beyond the hori¬ 
zon!” But he is dead. His final hap])iness has no 
meaning for the living. 

The Emperor Jones (1920), which followed Be¬ 
yond the Horizon, is one of O’Neill’s most popular 
plays. It has been produced in almost every country 
in the world. Jones, a former Negro porter and mem¬ 
ber of a Georgia chain gang, has become the emperor 
of an island in the West Indies. His subjects finally 
revolt, however, and Jones tries to escape through the 
jungle, hounded and haunted by the drums of the 
natives and the memories of his 
wicked past which ajjpear to him 
in a series czf visions, all of which 
instill such a fear in him that he 
loses his reason and runs directly 
into the hands of his enemies. 

O’Neill’s knowledge of the 
jungle gained during his journey 
to the Honduras allowed him to 
treat the primitive forces in this 
jday with lemaikable insight. I he 
conflict (and the tragedy) here is 
mental, as it is in most of his plays. 
“[.Man’s] struggle used to be with 
the Gods,” O’Neill once wrote, 
comparing Greek tiagedy with 
modern, “but now it is with him¬ 
self, his own past. . . .” 

In many iesj)ects The Hairy 
Ape (1922) is an outgrowth ol The 
Emperor Jones. The j)lay is sym¬ 
bolic in charactei, a tendency 
whic h becomes St rongei in O Neill’s 
later efiorts. In describing the fire¬ 
man’s forecastle in scene one he 
stated: “Ehe treatment of this 

.scene, or of any other in the play, 
should by uo means be naturalistic.” 

^ank, a fireman on a transatlantic liner, is satis¬ 
fied with his position and feels he belongs to the 
scheme of things: 

JANUARY, 1949 



YANK . . . K\im\ thing else liai makes lie woiUl move, 
somep’n else makes it mo\e. . . . Oeii yiih get down to me. 
I m at dc bottom, get me! Pete aiti't tuuhiti' foither. I’m 
lie enil! I tn ile start! 1 start somep'n attd de woild moves! 
. . . All de rich gnss liat tink ilere somep'ti. dey aiti't tioiliin'! 
Pel don't belong. But ns gnvs. we're in de move, we're 
at de bottom, dc whole titig is ns! 

riicii .Mikirccl Douglas, a young society girl who is 
sluiumiug under the pretence of doing social work, 
visits the firerootn of the liner. Yank has never seen 
anvihing like her: 

^.VNK. . . . Christ, von tonlda ])tished me o\cr with a 
linger! I was siareil. get tne? .Sure! I toiight she was a ghost, 
see- . . . She didn't belotig, dat's what! . . . .Atid den when 
1 come to atid seeti it was a real skoit—Christ. 1 was sore. 

animal strangles him in a murderous hug—“and at 
last perhaps the Hairy Ape belongs.” 

The Hairy Ape is one of O’Neill’s most powerful 
social plays. Yank stands for all the working men in 
this world who can no longer feel that they belong. 
He is, says O’Neill, “a symbol of a man w'ho has 
lost his old harmony rvith nature.” 

o ’NEILL won his second Pulitzer Prize with Anna 
Christie in 1922. The scene is “Johnny the Priest’s” 
saloon, which O’Neill copied after a waterfront dive 
called Jimmy the Priest’s where he often went during 
his youth. Briefly, the story concerns an old sailor, 

get me? ... . .And I flung de shovel—on'y she'd beat it. 
iFuriousIx) I wished it'd bang her . . . I'll fix her! 
.Maybe she'll come down again— 

AOIC!E. No chance, Yank. Y'ou scared her out of a 
year's growth. 

A'ANK. I scared her? AVhy de hell should I scare her? 
W'ho de hell is she? .Ain't she de same as me? . . . 
Determined to show his equality with the rest 
of the world, '^'ank goes to Fifth Avenue on Sunday 
morning and jeers at the passing crowds dressed in 
their finery. He is completely ignored. In a symbolic 
way, the people hardly see him. 

Then he tries to jc;in the IWW but is turned down 
even there. Out on the street a policeman tells him 
to keep moving or he’ll be locked up. 

A'.WK. {looking up at hitn — u'ith a hard bitter laugh) 
Sure! Lock me up! Put me in a cage! 

Pf)I,If;E.MAN. \Vhat you been doing? 

^'ANK. Enuf to gimmy life for! I was born, see? Sure 
dat's de charge. . . . 

But he is forced to move on: 

A'A.NK. (in a mocking tone) Say, w’here do I go from 

POI.ICE.MAN. (giving him a push) Go to hell. 

Yank ends up at the zoo where he sees a gorilla in 
a cage. Finally he has come upon something that he 
can feel a kinship to. He lets the ape out and the 

Chris Christopherson, who sends his only daughter 
inland to live on a farm so that she will not come 
under the influence of “dat ole davil sea.” But mis¬ 
fortune follows her there too, and by the time she is 
grown and returns to visit her father (at the begin¬ 
ning of the play) she has become a prostitute. She is 
trying to start a new life, however, and when she meets 
Mat Burke, another sailor, and falls in love with him, 
she thinks she has found her answer. The play ends 
w'ith Chris and Burke going to sea and with Anna 
waiting for them to come so she can make a home 
for them. 

Some critics have accused O’Neill of tacking a 
happy ending onto the play, but a close reading 
shows that this is not so. Anna is forgiven by Burke 
not through a real understanding of her situation but 
because he feels he cannot live without her. In other 
words, O’Neill does not say wTether or not Anna will 
have a happy future life. Old Chris sums it up in the 
last speech of the play: “You can’t see vhere you vas 
going, no. Only dat ole davil sea—she knows.” 

With The Great God Brown (1925) O’Neill tool 
an even greater step than ever before in the direction 
of experimentation. Always dissatisfied with the the 
atre of the present day, he decided that perhaps with 




the use of symbolic masks he could better portray the 
various "faces” we present to those whom we come 
in contact with and thus give more meaning to the 
play. He said that he wanted to create a “mystical 
pattern which manifests itself as an overture. . . . dimly 
behind and beyond the words and actions of the char¬ 
acters.” In 1942, looking back on this play, he wrote: 
“I still consider this play one of the most interesting 
and moving I have written. It has its faults, of course, 
but for me, at least, it does succeed in conveying a 
sense of the tragic drama of Life revealed through 
the lives in the play.” Even the names of the characters 
are symbolic. Dion Anthony, for example, is a com¬ 
bination of Dionysus and St. Anthony, indicating the 
conflict in his personality. The prostitute is the per¬ 
sonification of Mother Earth, and Brown himself 
with all his shortcomings, is Man. (It is interesting 
to note that most of the prostitutes in O’Neill’s plays 
are very sympathetic people, far above the average in 
compassion and understanding.) 

The play is another blast against Puritan ideals 
which inhibit the spirit and in the end cause its 
destruction. Dion becomes a great cynic who turns 
from the hypocrites of this world because he hates 
“to share with them the fountain, flame and fruit.” 
The Great God Brown is a play which presents the 
conflict that has arisen from our acceptance of false 
moral values which we see as real. In a way Dion’s 
tragedy is a variation of O’Neill’s attitude concerning 
people who live beyond the reality of things, because 
it arises from the discrepancy between what they de¬ 
sire from life and what they get. But instead of 
criticising Dion, this time he finds fault with what we 
have taken for “reality.” 

^^TRANGE Interlude (1928) is one of O’Neill’s 
most ambitious plays. Its innovations were even more 
marked than any of its predecessors; and although 
he thought it would perhaps be a financial failure 
because of them, it nevertheless finally netted him 
1275,000—about one-third of his life’s earnings. It 
is about three times the length of an ordinary [day 
(having nine acts), and the audience had to come 
It five-thirty, take an hour off for dinner, and then 
[come back to see the rest of the play which lasted 
i-intil after eleven o’clock. 

Perhaps the most startling innovation was the re- 
Liirn to the aside. These asides, however, are not in 
the traditional vein; that is, they do not contain the 
■-dement of introspection as those of Shakespeare do. 
|3’Neill attempts to show the double lives that all of 

us lead, the difference between what we say and what 
we think. All the characters are self-centered and they 
are individual and peculiar, not typical. He looks 
at them abnormally (and so does the audience) in an 
attempt to portray more clearly the essence of our 

The plot alone could be told well in half the time 
the play takes but much woidd be lost. Nina Leeds 
wanted to marry her lover, Gordon, before he went 
overseas in AVMrld War I but was j)revented from 
doing so by her straight-laced father. When Gordon 
is killed Nina becomes neurotic, feeling that she has 
been cheated out of her love, and forthwith leaves 
her father’s house to live promiscuously with several 
men in an effort to atone for her unfulfilled love. 
She finally marries Sam Evans (a straightforward lad 
who loves her deeply) on the advice of a close friend, 
Ned Darrell, a doctor. Soon, however, she finds that 
unknown to Sam his family has a strain of insanity in 
it, and rather than have his child she has an abortion 
—without Sam’s knowledge. But both of them want 
a child very badly, so she asks Ned to give her one for 
Sam’s sake. In doing so, Nina and Ned fall in love, 
and though Nina wants to divorce Sam now and marry 
Ned, the latter refuses. Ned stays on as Nina’s lover, 
however. Always Nina guides herself by her naked 
desires and her idealistic memories of Ciordon, whose 
name she has given to her child. In the end young 
Gordon grows up to marry • (although Nina does her 
best to keep him to herself since he looks very much 
like his namesake) and he never learns that Ned is his 
real father. Ned turns again to his medical experi¬ 
ments, and Nina, when Sam dies, is left to marry an 
old friend of the family, Charles Marsden, to whom 
she has transferred the love she held for her father. 

The imjjortant thing about the leading characters 
in Strange Interlude is that they never take life lying 
down. I’hey fight and shape every situation they meet, 
whether for better or worse. Many people are so 
disturbed by the rawness and meanness of thought in 
the play (heightened greatly by the asides) that they 
find it jKtinful and ugly. O’Neill defends himself 
against such accusations by saying: “I don’t love life 
because it’s pretty. ... 1 am a truer lover than that. 
I love it naked. Ehere is a beauty to me even in its 
ugliness.” And again: “1 intend to use whatever 1 
can make my own, to write about anything under the 
sun that fits or can be made to fit the subject. ... I 
want to do what gives me pleasure and worth in my 
own eyes.” It is O’Neill’s honesty and insistance on 
looking at life as it is that make this one of the greatest 
of modern plays. 

JANUARY, 1949 



1 1 H Motiniiti!^ lU’cotiics EIrctw in l‘)31 O'Neill 
aijain reaclu'il ihc heights anti tle[)lhs that had been 
e\iilent in .S'/xtnge InterUtdc. Uasing the play on the 
Orrslcia trilog\ of Aesth\lns, O'Neill tvrote a three- 
part trageih p' The Hoinetoniing,” "The Hunted,” 
anil ‘ rhe Haunted''), lollotving the loriner play's 
i harai ter relationsliips almost exac tly, but substituting 
psvthologieal inlliienees lor the snperiniposeil ethics 
of the ancient master. Modern determinism was the 
am»Mer to (ireek late. 

O'Neill's only comedy, Ah, ]]'ilder)tess!, was pro- 
duceil in llH l. anti .some critics took it tt) mean that he 
was turning awav from his more tragic and morbid 
sidtjects. .\ntl it was hard to say dillerent since no 
more new plays of O Neill's were produced (except 
I)n\s ]\ illioiit End —and that was written before Ah, 
\\ ildeyiics.s!) for the next twelve years. 

He was writing jjrolifically in the meantime, how- 
ex er. and as earlv as I9.H() he wrote B. H. Clark saying 
that the most tlramatic experiences “have so far been 
lelt out of my jdays. . . . I've hardly begun to work 
up all this material, I)ut I’m saving it up for a cycle 
f)l jjlavs 1 hope to do sometlay.” The reference to a 
"i vcle” concerned a series of nine related plays (about 
an .\merican family 1775-19.32) which, taken together, 
were to be called A Tnle of Possessors Self-Dispos¬ 
sessed. (He destroyed three of the completed plays, 
however, when he decidetl to enlarge the scope of the 
cvcle.) rhe title itself is .symbolic because O’Neill 
believes that in a way America is the greatest failure 
in the world: 

W'e’xf been able to gel a very good |viite for our souls 
in ibis eountry—tlie greatest price perltaps that ever has 
been paid—but vou'd tbink tlial after all these vears . . . 
we'd have sense enough— all of us—to understand that the 
whole secret of human happiness is summed up in a sentence 
that e\cn a child ran understand. The sentence? “For what 
shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole workl and 
lt)se his own soul?" 

Our materialistic creed has killed all the chance we 
have ever hatl to amount tt) something. He calls 
Ifroatlway the “most tawdry street in the world.” 

H K AL.SO tftmpleted .several plays outside the 
above-itienlittnetl cycle during this twelve-year period, 
one of which is called Long Day’s Journey into Night 
anti which O'Neill refuses to let be produced until 
twenty-five years frrmt now—after he is dead. Another, 
The Iceman Cometh, was given on Broadway in 1946. 
The length alone caused much comment (it’s as long 
as Strange Interlude), but more interest shrjultl have 
come from the fact that in a very real way O’Neill 

docs an about face in his attitude towards the way 
pco])le should live. Like Ibsen in Peer Cynt, he hatl 
always been against tbe romantic illusion that most 
people live by. But here (as Ibsen did too, strangely 
enough, in The Wild Duck) he defends the lies of 
life as being, for some people, indispensable. This 
still fits in with the most important statement in his 
“creed,” namely, that “most of us have something 
within ns which prevents us from accomjjlishing what 
we dream and desire.” But it was partially a contra¬ 
diction (though a needed one) to most of the plays 
he had written before. Like Gregers in The Wild 
Duck, Hickey returns to his old saloon hangout, de¬ 
termined to wrest its occupants out of their delusions 
and back into reality and action. Typical of these 
characters is “Johnny Tomorrow” who keeps his self- 
respect by planning to do great things “tomorrow”— 
but never doing them. Hickey’s intrusion only cau,ses 
dissension fas it did in llrsen’s play) and does more 
harm than good, for these people must have their 
delusions or they cannot live. The play only proves 
again O’Neill’s mastery in handling the tlramatic sit¬ 
uation. For loin* hours The Iceman Cometh holds an 
audience spellbound. 

For those who insist that the plays of Eugene 
O’Neill are abnormal and treat only the sensational 
or the macabre there is much to support their claims. 
In his thirty-eight produced plays there are tw'elve 
murders, eight suicides, txventy-three other deaths, and 
.seven cases of insanity. On the other side of the pic¬ 
ture, however, there is the very impressive record of 
three Pulit/er Prizes and one Nobel Prize. O’Neill 
is one of three Americans to win the latter. 

Llnfortunately, while wczrking on the long cycle 
of nine plays, O’Neill contracted an which gave 
him a severe case of palsy. Doctors disagree as to what 
the disease is, but O’Neill feels sure that the heavy 
thinking he did in his youth hasn’t helped matters 

Since he always wnites in a very small and neat 
hantl, getting one thousand words to a page (patient 
,\frs. O’Neill then types them up with the aid of a 
magnifying glass), writing it.self is now out of the 
t|uestion. Dictating seems to destroy his creative pow¬ 
ers, probably because he is used to writing in seclusion. 
“Imagine,” he say.s, “trying to dictate a thing like 
Mourning Becomes Electra.” Thus thirty-five years 
of extremely prolific dramatic writing was brought to 
a halt, and what would have been perhaps the greatest 
of all drama cycles, A Tale of Possessors Self-Dispos¬ 
sessed, was cut .short before its completion. 




4. Night 


'and of the night inchoate 

menacing darkness that cree])s up alleys 

slips along lower streets of the city 

silently taking possession of the corner 

at Eighth and MacDongal 

where the street lamp has burned out. 

Bright-girdled city 

'sprawling beneath dark and remote skies, 

adorned with twinkling lights 

that arch high over the river, 

and lewd with a thousand 

gaseous llickering colors, 

what is the unrest incipient 

in yoin crowded streets 

tnd what the fear that settles 

.m the glittering stacks of your buildings? 

—We have no fear, the urban voices cried 
issuing from restaurants, billiard halls 
and echoing from opera-house facades, 
iilk-hatted voices, voices febrile, choked 
with grit of city streets, and frog-like grunts 
}f new'sboys, scraj)iug tones of prostitutes 
dl contravening, all denying fear. 

md where the circunrscribing limits 
)f the darkness that surrounds the city 
wining up from the silent river 
.md descending from the sky 
»?ver eiuroaching on outer boulevards 
apping at the lines of street lamps 
iwaiting oidy the fracture of tungsten filament 
o (piietly completely pos.sess a city block. 

mng-limbed and graceful 
l.leaming with polyt hromatic globes 
ity supine in the midst of darkness 
lakeil pearl-eyed harlot 
waiting the fearful touch of night. 

'—We have no fear, the city dwellers cried 
Ithough they stirreil uneasily 
rowding around the glaring white manpiees 

and flitting as a swarm of restless gnats 
eager l(n’ blind a,ssuring warmth of light. 

Kneel, city dwellers, at the altar jjosts 

of your lactory chimneys 

and kneel at the altar rails 

of your steel-beamed britlges; 

rasp lorth a snort of thanksgiving 

at the glory ol your blinking scarlet signs 

and the clean-swept width ol yom downtown streets; 

rejoice in your microcosm 
safely enclosed by a net of bright lights, 
guaicled by red-glowing radio towers 
and the flashing whirling betnns 
of airplane beacons; 

applaud the efficiency of your police fence 

and your street-cleaning lorce, 

and the varied institutions of your city, 

museums, ]jresiclential tombs, and music halls, 

the low venereal disease rate, 

low death rate, low delincpiency late; 

kneel before yom riveted altars 

and sing loudly to anestheti/e vom fear, 

the fear that you deny 

as you live turning and writhing 

in the smoky piotoplasm of your city-cell; 

lorget the piimal vastness 

of night surrounding you; 

have faith in the power plant in f ifth .Street 

and remember the efficiency ol your elec ti ic ians, 

competent workeis who repair all tents 

in the sec|uinecl apparel ol yom city 

and guard her from the stealthy lust of night. 

That lowers between near-set apaitment houses 

seeping along gutteis, back fences 

mauy-liugerecl night insensate 

filtering between the outpost lights 

piobing with black expeiimental tentacles 

licking with ludimentary shapeless tongues 

at the glitteiing spiawliug city 

and cpiickly soltly smotheiing 

the stieet hunp at Eighth and MacDongal. 

J.VM ARV, 1919 


A Sensitive, Ironic Portrayal of Our Modern Dilemma 

I III (. \RR1- rs()\ CHRONICILE 
H\ {.eraId W’arncM Brace. 

II . II . .Wnloii v!" Conipanv. 

.‘IS.'i pa"es. 

Reviewed hv R. 1). Lciomis 

I d' HA.S liEEX a long time since 
iliis reader has come across a hook 
as excellent and as satislying as Ger¬ 
ald \\'arner Brace’s The Garretsnn 
Chronicle. In a way its ajrpeal lies 
in the fact that, although it is the 
siorv of a young man's breaking from 
his heritage because it no longer is 
suited to this modern world, it es¬ 
capes the now hackneyed and trite 
theme of the young intellectual 
desperately at odds with the world, 
an idea once validly used and well 
expounded by men such as Joyce 
and Wolfe but which has since been 
run into the ground by lesser writers. 
Ralph C.arretson, the first-person 
protagonist of the novel, says of his 
life, “I regret in a way that this 
chronicle is not the confession of an 
artist as a young man, of a sensitive 
child misunderstcrod by common 
fcrlk. It would make a much sharper 
drama. But the tragedy cjf vulgar 
jjersecutiem was not mine. If any¬ 
thing, I thrived on it.” 

I he story, then—although strictly 
speaking there is no stcjryline but 
rather a series of events covering- 
three generations all cjf which are re¬ 
lated by the theme—is cjiie of a boy 
born intc; an “admirable cultural 
jjattern,” but whc.), in sjjite of “all 
training and encouragement, the 
gcxjcl intenticjns, good manners, 
gcjod bcxjks,” grew up in bewilder¬ 
ment and uncertainty. All factors 
taken together somehow produced in 
him a .sort oi mcjtiveless rebellion. 
“.So it has been, I believe,” says the 

author iu the person of Garret.son, 
"for many others. The truth about 
this era of ours is to be found not 
oidy among the warriors and cru¬ 
saders but among all the folk who 
struggle and fail for no clear reason, 
who lead their lives of quiet despera¬ 
tion unnoticed by anyone except the 
recording angel.” 

Ralph Garretson grew up under 
the influence of his father’s waning 
but still active transcendentalism. 
But Ralph, finding that he could 
neither accept his father’s principles 
nor find any new ones worth work- 


By John Horn Burns. 

Harper and Brothers Publishers. 

Reviewed by Marcia Norcross 

TTHERE’S an arcade in Naples 
that they call the Galleria Umberto 
Primo. It’s a cross between a rail¬ 
road station and a church. You 
think you’re in a museum till you 
see the bars and the shops. Once 
this Galleria had a dome of glass, 
but the bombing of Naples shattered 
the skylight, and tinkling glass fell 
like cruel snow to the pavement. 
But life went on in the Galleria. In 
August, 1944, it was the unofficial 
heart of Najiles. It was a living and 
subdividing cell of vermouth. Allied 
soldiery, and the Italian people.” 

This is the setting of John Horn 
Burns’ first novel about the Allies in 
Italy. He remembers the smells, 
shapes, and .sounds he found in his 
promenades in the Galleria and re- 

ing for, turned into the black ship 
of the family. He was “fired” fru 
Lincoln, his prep school, and frn 
Harvard. When his father fin;y 
died, he realized how much he 1:1 
always secretly depended upon In 
and how the j)ast, which he soi;- 
times depended more on than e 
present or future, had suddenly vi- 
ished. “Fathers must all die—j:l 
simple as the fact is, no one is e r 
quite reconciled to it. But in the 
times of ours there seems to bet 
vaster fact, a death that touches mi- 
(Continued on Page 37) 

cords them as faithfully as a techi- 
color camera in his bitter expos^f 
the conquered and their conqueru. 

The book is not a novel; thens 
little plot. It is merely a loose ci- 
struction of portraits alternatg 
with promenades. The portraits e 
in reality character sketches of Arrr- 
ican and Italian men and womi. 
Example: “Hal’s secret was a gT;i 
emptiness within himself. He ;• 
lieved in nothing, often doubt g 
his own existence and that of e 
material world around him.” 

The promenades are descriptiiis 
and memories of places in Noh 
Africa and Naples as he saw itn 
1944. Example: “The sky at Fedha 
is the color of slate, and the ainf 
Fedhala is of that musky heaviris 
I knew only in North Africa, le 
atmosphere lies like a shroud o't 
the continent. Perhaps from tis 
comes the thick lost mystery of Ai- 
ca, which teased my mind, partii- 

John Horn Burns’ Version of the 
War in Italy Rates with the Best 







408 Geer Street 
Phone F-139 

Keep Up 

With Happenings at 
Duke and In Durham 

By Reading the 

Burfjam ^Morning 


The Durham Sun 

Special Coverage of 
I Duke News 

larly after sunset.” 

The writing is surprisingly good 
considering that Burns is an instruc¬ 
tor in English in a New England 
hoys’ school. This, however, does 
not account for his use of the con¬ 
tinental practice of starting direct 
discourses with dashes instead of quo¬ 
tation marks. His too frequent use 
of foreign sentences in the love 
scenes is often maddening to readers 
who do not command both French 
and Italian. His style is uninhibited, 
and he is extremely free in inserting 
lecherous conversations and bodily 
functions—the shock technique of 
photographic realism. 

All of his characters drink, love, 
jjonder, and despair. I’here is Mom¬ 
ma, the wealthy and good-hearted 
proprietess of an Italian bar patron¬ 
ized by homosexuals of all nationali¬ 
ties whose inanities are accurately 
recorded. And Giulia, the Italian 
girl who read Uncle Tom’s Cabin 
and Cone With the Wind and kept 
her virtue despite the tempting of¬ 
fers made by American officers. The 
portrait of Father Donovan and 
Chaplain Bascom contains witty 
dialogue between a Catholic and a 
Baptist which ends in tragedy. There 
is also a major in censorship, a Red 
Cross field director, a Jewish officer, 
and a private with trenchloot. The 
bold chapter called “Queen Penicil¬ 
lin” gives an account of a patient 
in a syphilis ward and is filled with 
clinical and cynical horror. 

Burns’ symjxithy with the Neo- 
politans is generous throughout, and 
he shows the Americans as pitiless 
comjuerors of a hungry and heljjless 
city. He seems to be struggling to 
discover what inner strength and 
weaknesses may lie beneath the sur¬ 
face. “You have no right to seek 
(iod directly,” one of his characters 
says, “^'ou must do it through other 
people. ’Fhey’re all small jjieces of 
Him. If you know and love all the 
people of your time, you know Ciod.” 

As a whole the book successfully 
conveys a sense of tragedy that war 
brought into the lives of the victors 
and the vanquished. It ranks with 


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Said Mr. A, “They’re good and mild, you see,” 
Said Mr. A, “It’s years and years for nac.” 

The sequence two, five, five when solved, 
Shows a smiling D. A. with sins absolved. 

Working backward where this man dwells, 
You make one change for fragrant smells. 



1. Identify the 3 subjects in back cover ad. All clues are in ad. 

2. Submit answers on Chesterfield wrapper or reasonable facsimile to this publication ofRce. 

3. First ten correct answers win one carton of Chesterfield Cigarettes each. 

4. Enter as many as you like, but one Chesterfield wrapper or facsimile must accompany each entry. 

5. Contest closes midnight, one week after this issue's publication date. New contest next issue. 

6. Answers and names of winners will appear in the next issue. 

7. All answers become the property of Chesterfield. 

8. Decision of judges will be final. 


A The field of red is the red scarf which Tyrone Power is wearing. On it one 
can recognize the mask of tragedy, the classic mask of Thespis. So the answer 

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Norman Mailor’s The Naked and 
the Dead as one of the great books 
to come out of the war. • • • 


[Continued from Page D) 
kind. My generation has lost more 
than its earthly father—and the cir¬ 
cumstance has given us much pride. 
We have relished our lostness with 
peculiar vanity, as though no young 
folk had ever before been so mag- 
nihcently abandoned; we have pit¬ 
ied ourselves for being simply men 
on earth. Cause or no cause, we 
have made more fuss about living 
than any other people ever known.” 

But this is to give an unfair im¬ 
pression of the book as a whole. No¬ 
where, as pointed out aimve, does 
the uncertainty become whining or 
emotional. The portraits of Ralph 
and his father and grandfather are 
level and sure, and are touched with 
a knowing irony. I'he scenes of 
Ralph’s boyhood are as wonderful in 
their reality and nostalgia, though 
not so idyllic, as anything in Mark 
Twain; and the atmosphere and at¬ 
titude of Boston are what Howells 
and Marcjuand have tried to capture 
but never so successfully. 

What remains is a novel of re¬ 
markable sensitivity, both to charac¬ 
terization and the temper of our age. 
It is refreshing and stimulating to 
find once more a writer who recog¬ 
nizes the jjlight of these times yet 
who shows that there is still .some 
hope and goodness in it all and who 
does not feel it necessary to stoop to 
cheap sensationalism to keep his 
reader’s interest. 

“In all the things that matter,” 
says the blurb on the dustjacket, “in 
artistic integrity, in depth and skill 
and impact of characterization, in 
interpretation of an American way 
of life, in the texture ot its prose. 
The (Uirretson Chronicle is an im¬ 
pressive and sidxstantial achievement. 
Few books of such stature are pub¬ 
lished in any one year.” 

It is one of the few book adver¬ 
tisements I have seen that is in no 
way an overstatement. • • • 




Fraternity and 
Sorority Stationery 





Dance Invitations 




IN 1904 








(Conh'nucd from Page ■/) 
years ago. X’incciu Stanett ot the 
Cliicago Tribune recently clevotetl 
all of his column, “Books Alive,” to 
praise their endeavors. 

"So popular was the contest,” 
wrote Starrett, “that it is being con¬ 
tinued as an annual event. Collect¬ 
ing books, and reading them too, has 
become an excitement in the blood¬ 
stream of students bookishly in¬ 
clined. d’hey discuss their ‘finds’ in 
the secondhand bookshops of Chica¬ 
go with intelligence and enthusiasm. 
In the campus tea-house there is 
chatter of books and authors and 
special interests that suggests a con¬ 
vention of veteran bibliophiles swap¬ 
ping experiences in a bookshop. It 
is pleasant, and a little startling, to 
reflect that this inspired project may 
develop a galaxy of feminine book 
collectors that will keep its male 
competitors on the alert. In the past, 
for centuries, the women in the col¬ 
lecting field have been heavily out¬ 
numbered by the men.” 

A Word to the Wise 

Well, if it’s good enough for Rock¬ 
ford, it shoidd be good enough for 
Duke. We’d like to see, and are 
hoping for, a much greater response 
to the contest this year. 

We say this, realizing all too well 
that about the only way a Duke 
student can buy many of the books 
he might want is to send away to 
some distant place, because, alas, 
there is no bookstore near which 
caters to anything but textbooks and 
best sellers. 

“Jack” and Jill 

Former Archive contributor Jill 
Fothergill has made a name for her¬ 
self writing Vogue copy. This means 
thinking up such fashion blurbs as 
“the encompassing look of deejj, 
hushed grey, spiked with sharply 
brilliant turquoise,” etc. She was a 
finalist in Vogue’s Prix de Paris con¬ 
est and is one of the few winners 
still on the staff. She has also pub¬ 
lished articles on Guatamala and 
England in that magazine. Her lat¬ 
est story in the September issue is 

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and Vegetables 


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c led “Grandfather Extraordinary.” 
Maybe some of you will remember 
|1 as the girl who almost got this 
iiigazine sued because of some ques- 
t liable allusions in an Archive 
s ry called “Altitude” a few years 
bck. • • • 


(Continued from Page 3) 

s ijily not worth Pons’ price for 
tli hearing. Our only consolation 
i.'that if we had to hear Pons, we 
a least heard her on an evening 
ven her voice w'as generally steady 
ad true to pitch. 

Gounod and His Romeo 
Gounod’s Romeo and Juliet was 
em more olfensive than Pons’ con- 
Dt. The fault lay not in the per- 
fdmance, which was as good as can 
p>sibly be hoped for from a small 
tiveling opera company, nor even 
ii the fact that the opera was pcr- 
hmed in a language which could 
n: be understood by the majority 
othe audience, but in the fact that 
C unod’s work is but a dull example 
owhat can be a noble art form and 
god entertainment. 

The essential greatness of opera 
li. in the power of the musico- 
d matic combination to express 

eiations and to stir them. 'I’he 
wjikness of Gounod’s Romeo and 
luet is that it does neither. Ciou- 
n l tickles the ear with one senti- 
n ntal melody after another, but 
II le of them are deeply moving and 
ft fulfill the dramatic necessities. 
11 the opera is compared with 
SI kespeare’s drama, the librettists 
*i seen to have unduly weakened 
d story, and Gounod himself to 
fije weakened it even more. The 
5C le in which Juliet drinks Friar 
blvrence’s potion, for instance, is 

highly dramatic in Shakespeare. It 
is almost eliminated by the libret¬ 
tists, and is fitted by Gounod with 
dainty “Slumber Music.” Imagine 
what a powerful scene Verdi would 
have made of it! 

Tears, Idle Tears 

What made the Pons concert and 
the Romeo and Juliet so disappoint¬ 
ing was that Mr. Barnes could have 
procured better attractions. He could 
choose from a number of artists such 
as Albanese, Bjoerling, Berglung, 
Singhier, any one of whom would 
have given a concert of more musical 
worth than Pons’. Instead of Gou¬ 
nod’s Romeo and Juliet he could 
have contracted for Rossini’s Barber 
of Seville, with which the Wagner 
company will go on tour in Feb¬ 

Mr. Barnes’ failure to get the 
Barber is particularly regrettable, be¬ 
cause whereas Gounod’s Romeo falls 
short of its Shakespearean source, 
Rossini’s Barber surpasses Beau¬ 
marchais’s comedy on which it is 
based. The libretto itself contains 
most of Beaumarchais, with the ad¬ 
dition of a few effective farcical ele¬ 
ments, and Rossini’s music builds uj) 
the high comedy elements. An au¬ 
dience must laugh outright at the 
sprightliness and archness of such 
passages as that from the finale of 
Act I in which Figaro gloats over 
the way Don Bartolo has been foiled. 
At other times the music serves su¬ 
perbly for characterization, as in the 
two entrances Almaviva effects into 
Bartolo’s house by means of dis¬ 

The Barber would have been a 
better choice than Romeo not only 
because of its superior music, but 
also because of the fact that it con¬ 
tains more well-known music (you 
can hardly find anyone who doesn’t 
know of the “Largo al factotum” 
with its volley of “Figaro’s”) , and 
familiarity of the music is certainly 
a great factor in success with a Duke 
audience. Another strong recom¬ 
mendation is the fact that the \\ ag- 
ner company will perform its Barber 
in English. 

We Invite You to 
Patronize Our Branch 
OH ice Located Two 
Blocks East of the 
Duke Campus on 
West Main Street. 

Leave \'our AVintcr 
Woolens and Furs in 
Our Cold Storage Vault 
During Summer 




Complete Line of 

Esso Products 

Specialized Lubrication 

404 W. Chapel Hill St. 
Phone X-0071 

The Ivinction of a university con¬ 
cert series is to provide at the edu¬ 
cational institution cultural oppor¬ 
tunities otherwise unavailable. As 
manager of Duke's concert series, 
then, Mr. Rarnes has the duty of 
■voiding the publicity hoax like 
'ous and the musically inferior like 
Romeo (Hid Juliet. 

The Seat of the Trouble 
.\nother had feature in Mr. 
Rarnes’ management of the concert 
series is his arrangement for selling 
seats. Tickets are sold for reserved 
seats and ticket holders are allowed 
to retain their seats from year to 
year. This has the result of keeping 
the most choice seats in the posses¬ 
sion of non-student ticket holders 
tvho were the principal sid)scribers 
in the early years of the concert 
series. New students each year have 
difficulty even in getting seats. As 
this is a university series, the stu¬ 
dents surely should have at least an 
ecjual opportunity for getting seats 
and desirable seats. Perhaps Mr. 
Rarnes thinks to counteract the sit¬ 
uation with his off-series concerts, 
but the prices are higher for these 
concerts and the ticket holders have 
the right of refusal of their seats for 
these concerts as well. 

The solution is to abolish reserved 
seats and to sell all tickets at the 
same price, those people arriving ear¬ 
liest at the concerts having choice of 
seats. This system seems to be fol¬ 
lowed in most other places, even for 
civic concert series. It is used by the 
Chamber Arts Society. It may be, 
as Mr. Rarnes says, less “de luxe,” 
but it is more fair. In this system, 
too, is the solution for Duke’s jjrob- 
lem of having walls of vacant seats 
between the performers and the au¬ 
dience, such as existed at the con- 
'•ert of the Orchestre National, and 
of having disrupting influxes of late 
comers, such as occurred in the mid¬ 
dle of the first number performed 
by the Rudapest String Quartet. 

• • • 

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Durham, N. C. 

On Rus Line City Lini'i 


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March, 1949 


SPECIAL LIGHT VERSE by helen bevington 


THE SPOTLIGHT by mac hyman 





Con\enientlv Lcx'ated — 12 Miles West Of Campus 
On U. S. Route 70 

The Colonial Inn Is Well Known For Its Hospitality And Atmosphere 

Write or Telephone tor Room Reservations for Spring Vacation and Graduation 

J'isit Historic Hillsboro 

■ I 

give attention to your 



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From hat to shoes, Efird’s offers 
a wide selection of newest styles 
... at traditionally down-to- 
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coats — suits 


L. G. Balfour Co. 


N. C. Branch Office 
10021/2 W. Main St. 

] Your Official Fraternity 

Dist. Mgr. 

Retail Bakers 

Decorated Cakes 
Fancy Pastries 
Bread and Rolls 

503-5 W. Morgan St. 

1115 Broad Street 

Durham Laundry 

Expert Dry Cleaners 

' Gregson Sc Peabody Streets 
Telephone L-991 


It seems futile to decry anymore 
tlie necessary pliglit of college lit¬ 
erary magazines. It’s all been said 
so many times. But apparently there 
is yet need for it since every once 
in a while someone still jjoints out 
what he thinks is a correctable fault, 
and we must either show him mi.s- 
taken—or try to change. 

The Cffiarge 

Dr. Leary, in a recent Chroiiicle 
article, hoped he would not be 
“misunderstood” when he wrote 
that although the Archix’e is now 
better than it has been for a “long, 
long time,” the “three or four peo¬ 
ple who put it out [iiobably don’t 
represent all the peo])le at Duke 
with something to say. Or what’s 
worse, maybe they do.” 

What we fear, and what we mean 
to talk about here, is that most stu¬ 
dents will take Dr. Leary’s state¬ 
ment as a criticism of the Arcliir’e 
rather than of themselves. Fhat is, 
at least, what we make of it. Per¬ 
haps we have “misunderstood” you. 
Dr. Leary, but the whole paragraph 
from which the above two sentences 
were taken is full of subtle contra- 
tlittions which allow it to be inter¬ 
preted in many ways. 

The Facts 

To begin with, the Archixie rep¬ 
resents more than “three or four 
people.” In our first two issues alone 

<f • HI 







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Mgr. S. C. 






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Keep l^p 

W’itli Happenings at 
Duke and In Durham 

Hv Reading the 

Qurljam ftlorning 


The Durham Sun 

Special Coverage of 
Duke News 

Everyone Agrees 




Really Fine Foods 

Air Conditioned 

Banquet Rooms 

we puhlished tlie work of nineteen 
dilferent writers, besides reproduc¬ 
ing inanv jihotographs, ilraAvings, 
and paintings. 

We must admit, of course, that 
these writers probably don’t rejne- 
sent "all the people at Duke with 
something to say," but that covdd 
only be a Ibopian dream anyway 
you look at it. We admit too that 
perhaps these nineteen aren’t the 
very best writers at Duke—but they 
are the best who showed themselves. 
Many young writers are oversensi¬ 
tive about their work. They haven’t 
yet learned to criticize their stories 
or poems objectively, and as a result 
they often think of them as being 
better than they are. Sometimes the 
rejection of a poor story—no matter 
how diplomatic the process—will 
hurt (and therefore anger) its 
author to such an extent that he 
will never sidjmit anything again. 

The students on our editorial staff 
are not primarily talent scouts for 
a group of bashful literati. The 
“people at Duke with something to 
say” must let us see their work. We 
can’t publish things tve don’t know 

In Comparison 

As for the statement Dr. Leary 
makes regarding the manner in 
tvhich our publications, especially 
the Archive, are received outside the 
university, we invite him—and any¬ 
one else—to come down to our 
office and look through some of the 
literary magazines from other col¬ 
leges, including such w'ell-known 
ones as Princeton’s Nassau Lit and 
\Villiam and Mary’s The Royalist. 
And there aren’t a lot of them be¬ 
cause most colleges, even the big 
ones, can find it in their souls to put 
out only humor magazines. 

It is generally true that a college 
campus gets the pidtlications it de- 
•serves. But in the case of the Ar¬ 
chive, considering the lack of inter¬ 
est you, the student body, take in it, 
Duke University is probably getting 
a better literary magazine than it 
should. • • • 

Why be caught short... 

The extra margin you need is 
all yours as soon as you slip 
on a pair of “ELEVATORS”. 
These amazing height-in¬ 
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like any other smart shoes, 
yet they make you impres¬ 
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308 Morgan Street 
Phone R-768 


Bv Dan Pai ifrson 
A Serious Series 

M ANY' great artists and orches¬ 
tras have played here in the past 
and this year too we have had 
several outstanding concerts. But 
out of our handful of concerts each 
year .some vahtable ojtportunities 
have been wasted on performers 
such as Pons (who has been dealt 
with before) and the F'irst Piano 
Quartet, which all of us have ar¬ 
gued about privately until weary 
of the subject. Ehe poptilar ap¬ 
plause for such “attractions” as these 
proves that the Duke audience is 
still of that hardy old American 
stock which thought it hatl attained 
the acme of esthetic experience in 
hearing Verdi’s “Anvil Chorus” 
playetl to the anvil pounding of 
.some half-huiulred firemen. If it 
were not for the fact that the cam- 
jnis has been threatened with Nelson 
Eddy and the Eirst Piano Quartet 
for the next sea.son, I should gladly 
leave the subject. As it is, 1 shall 
have to beg the (ientle Reader’s |)ar- 
don for repetitiousness, and try once 
more to conc|uer with arguments: 

Ehe Duke Concert Series is no 
more a commeicial enterprise than 
the university itself and should not 
be concerned with ]K)pidar or com- 
(Conli)iuecl on /'iigc tCt) 


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TEL. J-3641 



VOL. 62 No. 3 

When Ciuv Davenport left for England last fall on a Rhodes Scholar¬ 
ship, he promised between studies and stories to ivrite the Archive 
an ‘‘Oxford Letter.” It took him some time to acclimate himself to his new etwironment, especially since 
living conditions, as regards food and heat, were much poorer there than in American universities. But ivhat 
interests him most here is not a portrayal of Oxford life alone hut a comparison between its attitudes and 
customs and those of Duke. 



A E'ULL account of Oxford life, which is as varied 
and as particular as any other sort of college 
. life, is not to be captured and anatomized in a 

single letter. One must steer a course between two 
concepts: Ciatsby, the Ciatsby, who had “been to Ox- 
1 lord College,” ccjuld make himself formidable in any 
Country Club set by the mere evocation of cricketbat 
and the Merton College Library, which, if you will 
remember, he had fascimiled in West Egg. I’he other 
(Exception is the Time and Life conception of the Ox¬ 
ford den, with cadaverous grace, pipe and an excess 
af deep and solemn knowledge. Just so, but there’s a 
lot of nonsense to those extremes. One of my tutors 
s a professional soldier; the other, who is now writing 
he modern literature section of the “Oh Hell” (or 
1 ). H., or Oxford History of English Literature), 
lometimes calls himself Michael limes and has whip¬ 
ped out such best-selling detective novels as Hamlet, 
fievenge!. Lament for a Maker, Comedy of Terrors, 
The Unsuspected Chasm, and There Came Both Mist 
ind Snow. 


: Perhaps some impressions of people would be 
lively. Arnold I'oynbee is cpiite shy and is such a bad 
lecturer that one becomes exasperated at his stutter- 
ng, “uhs,” and careful slowness. He smiles right 
hrough a lecture, as though history were an anec¬ 

dote. T. S. Eliot seems tremendously old. He’s a 
powerfully built man, however, (one remembers that 
he used to box) and his speech is swift and acute. 1 
was pleased to see that, after all, he comes pretty 
close to being Prufrock, with his checkered shirt and 
violent handkerchief. C. S. Lewis booms out his lec¬ 
tures with brilliance and can cover more intellectual 
ground in a shorter time than anyone else I’ve heard. 

Oxford, the university town, not the industrial 
section (the whole city is 100,000 population), is 
closely packed, a heterogeneous hodgepodge — a be¬ 
witching hodgepodge—of medieval, seventeenth-and 
eighteenth-century, \’ictorian, and moderately mod¬ 
ern buildings. Ehere are delicate gardens aiul spacious 
quads: Magdelan has deer. 

One spends his day in good British comfort, at 
leisurely meals with colfee and damn line conversation 
afterwards, at tea and sherry. 1 can scarcely believe 
that at Duke a body used to scramble through the 
day with unholy imlustry and never a pleasantry to 
anticipate save friends or an hour of tresspass at Red’s 
or Jimmy Paschalis’s. 1 was always an advocate of the 
abolishment of cla.sses at Duke, and still am; 1 send 
on to you tidings that the system is splendid and ad¬ 
mirable, well worth a try. .\merican innocence — let 
us be Jamesian—is, after all incommodious. Why 

MARCH, 1949 



shoukln't li<.|uoi 1)0 allowed in the donnitories, or 
women? The ol>\ ions answers are insnlting, the eva¬ 
sive answers are iirest)me, especially when one thinks 
ol how pleasant heins; treateil as a responsible human 
heim; wonkl he. .Strict upbringing has done its oHice 
well belore college, anvwav. 1 don’t hint that Duke 
is oppressive. .\t its best, it’s not a fit place to live and 
enjov one’s sell; one must seek too much ot life off 
campus, which fact 1 have always lound a grave in¬ 
dictment and one not conducive to study or balance. 
1 don’t sei/e this moment for preaching, nor is this 
attitude novel. 

.\fter onlv a short time away from an American 
tam|ms. 1 find that it hasn’t changed in my mind. But 
1 do have this opportunity to regiment a few criticisms 
which were best left unsaid but which are now 
prompted by a statement ot a Duke professor who 
thinks that the university lacks “a sense of direction.” 
He means, 1 think, that there is neither center nor 
boundary to the ’’shape” of student thought, that 
there is no determinate set ot values. He means a 
great deal more, I’m sure, but mostly that indifference 
and a certain amount of paralysis are preventing a 
vigorous and sensitive approach to learning at Duke. 

There are obvious and belabored causes for this 
shame: specialization of subject, the ruinous element 
of impersonality between institution and student, gen¬ 
eral neglect of classical and philosophic literature, an 
aversion toward all the arts, religion, and cultivation 
of sensibility. The list can go accusingly on. Looking 
back on Duke. 1 am sure that the latter is most ur¬ 
gently needed, that at that point, to be blunt, the 
whole shebang is out of whack. 

I'he intellect is an ambiguous critter and its sen¬ 
sitiveness is its most important factor. By sensitiveness 
—or its nervous, jumpy synonym, sensibility—I mean 
the aggressive end of the imagination, which a roman¬ 
tic has, perhaps, too much of, or misuses. Anyway, the 
average student in America seems to lack it altogether, 
even to the extent of prudishness and undue reserve. 
This elusive bird is difficult to define; its antithesis, 
indifference, frigidity, downright fear of human 
warmth, and so on, in short, woodenness and im- 
pliability, is easily understood. 

1 merely cite a serious shortcoming which certainly 
stagnates what could, with the impetus of many an¬ 
other human virtue, become a serious, vastly valuable 
attitude toward the haumanities and art, which, after 
all, constitute one’s real education, and every engineer 
and physicist knows it and wouldn’t admit it to his 
best friend, so shameful a predicament is emotion, so 
unbecoming to the undergraduate is the love of 

A word to the unwise, however, is insufficient. I’d 
lots rather see Duke as it is—complacent, happy and 
dumb—than wearing feathers not its own. But I hope 
that, in the mad scramble for getting onward and 
upward toward a bigger and better university, which 
process The Alumni Register records in cliche after 
cliche, somebody finefs a natural and organic way to 
give Duke the appearance, at least, of being a place 
where one learns more than bookkeeping, more than 
the fact that (iulliver’s Travels can be read from a 
satrical angle. 

-—February 1949, Oxford 


by Colbert Smith 

F ILIUS, life may often perplex us 

Overmuch following science and the arts. 

But things are made even more complexus 
For the jroor and the man of many parts 
By the unavoidable nexus 
I'hat Cupid’s arrow makes in the hearts 
Of the homo sapiens of opjrosite sexus. 



W One of the most memorable figures seen on campus is Dr. Robkrt Rogprs, hut stu¬ 

dents who have takeyi any of Ins Latin courses find him unforgettable as a teacher 
as leell as an individualistic expositor of views on liberal education, politics, and students’ attitudes. In his 
lively classes it is notable that he convinces his students that the continuance of cla.ssical studies is imperative 
for an understanding of our age. Ci.arknck Brown, whose drawings have frecjuently appeared in the Archive, 
's a junior from Anderson, S. 0., and is majoring in (Leek. 



O NE morning 
in early Sej)- 
tember a .stnall 
gathering ol students, 
mostly Freshmen, met 
for the first in 
Latin 1. None of 
them knew the teach¬ 
er, not yet arrived, 
and only a few of 
them knew each 
other. 1' h e y were 
loisily settling the latter difficulty when, preci,sely at 
en minutes past eight, a tall, spare, bespectacled figure 
ntered at the rear of the room and with great bounci¬ 
ng strides walked to the table in front. He sat clown, 
oldecl his hands, cleared his throat, and in a rumbling 
v'hisper that might have been heard for a country mile, 
Hid; “Cientlemen 1 am crazy.” 

This is the usual .sermon with which Dr. Robert 
amuel Rogers, head of the Duke Dept, of Latin and 
Ionian .Studies, initiates his students into what is jios- 
bly the most profitable and certainly the most extra- 
rdinary course they will ever have. In the course of 
lis annual apologia Dr. Rogers points out that his 
uditors too are crazy. “Because,” he groans, “we have 
;:)nie together to study L.\T1N ... a DE.VD lan- 
uage . . . ,so dead that it is at this moment spoken all 
ver Europe and all over North and South America.” 
he members of the leave this first lecture with 
vo very strong impressions: first, that the course 
hich they had expected to fiucl tedious bids fair to 
eing the brightest spot on their schethde; and second, 
lat Dr. Rogers, far from being crazy, is one of the 
nest of men. 


Dr. Rogers comes by his jnofe.ssion honestly: his 
ther. Dr. R. \\'. Rogers, with degrees from Leipzig, 

Dublin, and Oxford, was Professor of Hebrew and 
Old Testament in Drew Theological .Seminary. His 
sister, now a college profes.sor also, is a specialist in 
medieval history. ,\ncl when he himself was an under¬ 
graduate at the Ibiiversity of Pennsylvania, his plan 
was to major in modern history. “W'e three,” he says, 
“were going to divide the world between us.” But 
when he found that he was spending more time (and 
making better grades) on (irc-ek and Latin than on 
modern history, he changed his major accordingly. 
His one real regret about his undergraduate years is 
that he had no lime for a course in astronomy. 

But if Dr. Rogers didn’t major in modern history, 
it isn’t very apparent to any of his students — espe¬ 
cially those in his class of Roman History, which has 
the immediacy of a radio news broadcast because of 
the agility with which he can draw parallels between 
ancient and modern situations. In the class reading 
Ca'cero’s first oration against Cataline, in which the 
old orator tries to awaken the Roman |>cople to the 
fact that a dangerous c()us|)iracy is afoot, the mem¬ 
bers learned cpiite as much about the insidious spread 
of wot Id Lommunism as they did about the .\blative 
.Absolute. There is a strong political llavor about all 
of his teaching. He is unashamedly and ferociously 
Republican, and historical subjects such as the grain 
dole and the bureaucratic administration of the early 
Empire very cpiickly bring his lectures to the boiling 

^^ome ol Dr. Rogeis’ other hobbyhorses aren’t cpiite 
so jjolitical. One ol them in particular he rides locleo 
style: .American indidcrence toward language study. 
.\11 of his classes have heard the choice anecdote which 
he uses to point np his arguments on this subject. "In 
.\LL the I’nited .States Department of State,” he begins 
mournfully, “there is ONE individual who sjieaks 

MARCIH, 1919 



1 iiikish. Now. natuiallv, one ^^•ould imagine that 
that one man is representing ns in our embassy at 
Istanbul. Mm-m-m. Where IS he? In HELSINKI! 
.Viul." he adds in despair, ‘ Til bet he doesn’t speak 
rinnish.” .\sked about the future of classical studies in 
this countrv. Dr. Rogers sighs resignedly. “1 don’t 
know. r\e waited for so long for some signs of a 
renaissance that I’m not very optimistic any longer.” 
He believes that the moral renaissance for which the 
churchmen are panting will necessarily be preceded 
b\ some sort of revival in the humanities. 

He franklv admits that his ideas about education 
arc old-fashioned. "1 have the odd notion,” he says, 
"that a person shoidd conte to college to get an edu¬ 
cation. not to learn a vocation.” He thinks that a stu¬ 
dent whose primarv purpose is to learn how^ to make 
a li\ing, gets neither that knowledge nor an educa¬ 
tion. Another story accompanies this theme: the girl 
graduate from last year’s class who got the best job 
was a fine arts major. Her well-paid position w’as with, 
of all things, a bank. 

Dr. Rogers, incongruously has the stride of an ath 
lete, though his interests, to put it mildly, are any 
thing but athletic. As a matter of fact, he used to at 
tend the football games rather often—until the tickei 
price tvent higher than that for concerts. He stoppet 
as a matter of principle. His game some years ago wa: 
tennis, but he hasn’t kept that up. He is still, however 
enthusiastic about tw'o hobbies: his stamp collection 
the nucleus of w'hich he inherited from his father 
and his collection of Roman Imperial Coins, both oi 
which he has increased by his travels and residence ir 
twelve foreign countries. It was probably on thest 
journeys, too, that he acquired his taste for Turkish 
tobacco, which he smokes exclusively. But the prizt 
of all his w^anderings is the large signet ring which he 
wears on his right hand. “Really,” he says seriously, 
“this is my proudest possession. I get more pleasure 
from it than from anything else I have.” He happened 
on the gem for it in a little shop in Athens. The 
figure carveel in the stone, fittingly, is that of Thalia, 
the Muse of Comedy. 


by Helen Bevington 

I SPEAK it out, the wmrd itnagination, 

But w’ith misgivings, lest the shape be dim. 
Random for thought, a tvord iqron the tongue. 
I say the only word I knew for him. 

And wdth bent heads they wnite “imagination,” 

Poising their pens serenely, having heard 
Before these bright abstractions in the classroom. 
They have no trouble mastering the word. 

— Imagine, then, a sparroiu at his xuindoxu. 

And a poet xvatching, lost bemused, so long 
Lie is the fledgling, picking aboxit the gravel. 

Trying, perhaps, a little sparroxo song .— 

Agreeably they listen. In the notebooks 
Follows the pretty item, told anew: 

A. John Keats was a Romantic poet. 

B. He became a bird. Aged 22. 





P AUL had been standing there by the side of the 
clean polished counter, watching the men in 
overalls come in the door, their faces the same 
color of the red clay dirt they plow all day, the stubby 
whiskers dust-colored, and shiny, moving their lips 
and showing teeth that are yellow and brown with 
specks of gold, then holding out a finger and saying 
like: “Got a spring belt for a Model A, son? The one 
that goes right down through the spring on top? 
Know what I mean?” 

And Paul would take it out of the box and stand 
there while the man would peer at it, then finger it, 
measure it, think about it and decide on it and finally 
fish six cents out of a greasy leather bag to pay for it. 
Then he would wal)ble stiff-legged on out the door, 
the greasy little belt wrapped in crinkly paper and 
tucked somewhere in his pocket. So where is he going? 
Paul would think. We’ve got his six cents and he’s 
got his spring belt and God’s in His heaven and all’s 
right with the world. He’s happy as only a spring 
belt can make him happy. But later his fan belt will 
break and he’ll be here again, standing there asking 
about a fan belt for a Model A and walking out again 
with the fan belt under his arm. And then with the 
fan belt and the spring belt everything is of course 
just absolutely jim dandy, but just wait. Just wait, by 
God, until the spark plug decides to blow its little 

He went to the back of the store after ringing up 
the sale in the cash register, thinking of going down 
;o the beach with Raymond that afternoon because 
today was MTdnesday. Jake was branding a battery 
m the floor, his pants fitting tight and smooth around 
tis seat as he bent over; Garl was leaning up against 
iide of the door with a cigarette in his mouth, the 
anoke curling up around the side of his face making 
lim close his eyes about half shut, the way a sleepy 
ow looks at you. On the floor over by the battery 
ack, the hound, a brown and mangy-Iooking dog 

with a grease stain over his left eye, was curled up 
sleeping. When Paul stepped in the door, Jake look¬ 
ed up from stamping the liattery and looked down 
again, and Carl nodded at him, and the dog opened 
his eye,s, blinked them and lay looking at him. 

“What did he watit?” Jake asked. 

“Spring belt for a Model A.” 

“Ditl you find it for him?” 

“Sure,” Paid .said. 

“All by yourself?” Carl said. 

Paul looked at Carl Imt then Carl focused his at¬ 
tention on the battery Jake was pounding on. Jake 
slammed the branding key with the hammer and 
stood up. The collar on his khaki shirt was sitting 
right under his fat face and his narrow eyes, sunk 
down deep into his flesh, moved slowly around, taking 
in both Paid and Carl. “Put that battery up on the 
rack, Carl,” he finally said. 

Carl picked up the battery and gave a pleasant 
grunt throwing it on the rack. He tagged it and rip¬ 
ped the ticket off and stuck it in the cigar box nailed 
to the wall. I'hen he and Jake with the dog follow¬ 
ing went up front and .sat by the register. Paul 
stood in the back, and leaning up against an oil 
drum, thought again about the beach. At one-thirty 
he and Raymond ivould be in the car, driving fast 
with the wind whipping in through the windows and 
blowing through their hair and in a couple of hours 
they would be at the Iteach and after the first swim 
would be stretched out on the sand with Raymond 
taking a nap and him reading the liook he Iiad bought 
at the drugstore. And of course he would be sipping 
at the beer too liecairse they would have lieer in cans 
packed in ice sitting in a bucket next to the car. In¬ 
stead of reading they might just drink the beer and 
talk awhile. That was better than reading anyhow 
when Raymond wanted to talk and when the beer was 
cool and when the liree/e was nice off the water and 
when it was all ipiiet and cool there by the car on the 

Mac Hyman ivas one of the best writers at Duke ivlien he graduated from 
Duke two years ago. Since then he has held various fjositiojis in Xew York 
and Georgia—always writing on the side. At present he is u’orking on a noxwl. 



MARCH, 1919 



N.iiul Oil the lieadi. . . . 

He went u|) Iront aiul stooil over bv the eoiuitei l)c- 
hiiul C!ail. The tlog was eurletl ii|) by the chair and 
(airl was seraic hing Ins hac k w itli his feet. 

"It's slow tocla\." Jake said. 

"^'eaIl." Ciarl said, "it's real slow lor \\"cclncsday.” 

Diirint; the next hour, three customers came in. 
The Hist one was a ronncl-looking, neat-dressed man 
with “lasses. He wanted a car radio but they did not 
ha\e one in stock. I’anl stood over to the side as Jake 
explained to him hoev hard it was to get car radios 
these cla\s and the man \\as disappointed, but he nn- 
clerstoocl how it ^^■a.s. Jake Avas sorry and Clarl was 
s\ mpathetie and finally the man left, .saying, “Been 
hot enough lor yon today?” and Jake chnckled deep 
down in his thrcjat and said, “Yessir. Sure has.” 

When he had gone Carl .said, “They gitting some 
in clown at the Ford place.” 

“I know it, goddammit,” Jake said. “And I ain’t had 
one in a month. \Vonlcln’t ever get one il I didn’t 
raise hell about it.” 

rhe next enstomcr, a mechanic with a greasy cap 
pulled clown over his eyes, wanted a tailpipe lor a 
thirtv-,seven Chewy, and Jake sent Paul to the back 
to get it. When he brought it back to the desk, they 
were talking about car radios again. The mechanic 
was telling about one he saw in a Cadillac the other 

chanic said, “but you ought to have seen this job.” 

Paul, standing by the desk with the tailpipe over 
his shoulder, ran his fingernail over the rusty iron and 
it made shivers run np his back. Finally, though, the 
man took the pipe, paid tor it, and started out. Belore 
he got to the door, he turned and said, “Been hot 
enough lor yall?” and Carl said, “Hotter’n a bride in 
a leather bed,” and they all laughed, and the mechan¬ 
ic went on out the door with the tailpipe over his 

Paul leaned up against the counter and thumbed 
through a Reader’s Digest, reading the jokes at the 
bottom of the pages, wdtile Carl w^as telling Jake how 
the tube blew out in his brother-in-law^’s radio. Paul 
was just beginning an article wdten there w'as a Negro 
standing in the door. “See what he wants,” Jake said 
to him. 

The grey-headed old Negro wdth his hat in his 
hand stood just inside the door looking at the horns 
on the rack. 

“All right, uncle?” 

“Jist looking at these hawms, boss. Thought I might 
bettuh git me one.” 

Paul stood next to the Negro and they looked at the 
horns together, neither of them saying anything. 
Paul blinked his eyes trying to think but stood there 
in silence. It was beginning to get atvkw'ard in a fetv 

Draiuing By Jack Stringer 

clay. “Neatest damn thing you ever saw'. One of them 
Royal Masters. It really .set nice in that dash, too.” 

“ Fhat Royal .Master is a good little job,” Jake said. 
“ I hey’re |mtting a guarantee on’eni now'.” 

“'Ihey’re all right,” Carl said, “but I’ll take a 
Phoenix anyday, brother. That’s really a nice little 

“ J he Phoenix is all right,” Jake said. 

“.My brother-in-law had one,” Carl explained. 
“ I hey’re good.” 

“Well, I like a Phoenix all right, too,” the me- 

seconds and Paul for some reason began to feel a little 
angry and could only think to himself: What can you 
say about a horn. It’s a horn; it’s something to blow 
w'hen you w'ant to be heard. What can you say about 
a horn worth saying? A horn is a horn. A horn is a 
horn is a horn. Well, what the hell? He’s probably 
got a car fifteen years old anyhow. And that ten buck 
horn’s not going to get you any closer to heaven than 
that four buck horn. 

“I’ll w'ait on him, Paul,” he heard Carl saying. 
“What kind of horn you want, uncle? Look, this is a 




nice job. A set of two on one. Listen — ” He pres,sed 
the button and a .sound like the start of Yankee 
Doodle Dandy came out. Carl laughed. “How bout 
that? How bout that?” He pres.sed it again and the 
noise blared out. “That one’s just ten bucks, uncle.” 

“Hit .show makes a noise,” He leaned closer looking 
at it. 

“Look. Let me show you .something else. This one’s 
got a plastic case for the wiring. Come around here, 
let me show you.” 

Paul walked to the back of the store. He could hear 
Carl talking behind him. d'here seemed to be a good 
bit you could say about a horn. The dog looked up at 
him and moved aside. Jake glanced up from the order 
'book he was looking through and said, “We got to 
'get rid of those horns. We overstocked. You better 
start trying to sell some of them.” 
i “Yeah, Jake, I will,” Paul said. 

Carl tried another one u]r front that had two long 
notes and one short one. The Negro settled for that 
one finally at seven-fifty. As he was leaving the store, 
Paul looked up at the clock and saw it was close to 
eleven. In two more hours, they would close uj) and 
he and Raymond would be getting ready to go to the 
beach. It would take about two hours to get there, 
und then after .swimming and lying around in the 
sun and drinking the beer, sitting there with the 
oree/e coming in from the sea and with that distant 
'oaring sound from the waves on the shore — then 
hey would be driving back and would start planning 
hat trip they were going to take to the mountains 
hiring vacation, and talk about that trip to .South 
\merica they were going to make .some day. He smiled 
hinking of telling Raymond what he thought about 
he horn. That ten buck horn’s not going to get you 
my clo.ser to heaven than that four buck horn. Iliat 
vas pretty good all right. 

He started dusting out .some of the counter stalls 
o have something to do to make the time jiass laster. 
'lari was whittling on the rubber sole of his shoe with 

knife, and Jake was comparing two dillercnt kinds 
if radios in the catalogue, shaking his head sideways 
tiidying them. I'he dog walked over and snilled at 
ilarl’s shoe and lay down by his feet. 

[n about fifteen minutes, Raymond came in. Paul 
Hiked up from the counter to .see him moving in like 

fresh bree/e, his wide mouth in a big grin and his 
loud crew cut sticking straight up, his white I'-shirt 
I nooth and clean. Paul went up to meet him, smiling 
I lontaneously. “What do you say?” 

“Not saying, boy. Ain’t talking,” Raymond said. He 
was standing there moving up and down on his toes 
as if he couldn’t slow tiji. “Being a man of mystery and 
ain’t talking.” 

“That’ll get ’em,” Paul saitl. 

“That’ll freeze’em,” Raymond .said, looking around 
and running his fingers through his hair, the hair 
jumping straight up as his hand passed over it. 
“Jesus, it’s a nice hot day. Gonna be good down at the 
beach, boy. Ready to start moving. 'I'cll old Jake 
we’re ready to go and let’s get the hell out of here.” 
He turned to Carl and laughed. “How bout that, 
Carl? Going down to the beach this afternoon. Going 
to have us a little party.” 

“Souiuls good,” Carl said, still cutting on his shoe. 
“Gonna be hot down there, though.” 

“That’s what you want, Carl. I'hat’s what you want 
at the beach. Good and hot.” 

“Yeah, and get your hide burned off (jtiicker’n get¬ 
ting barbecued,” Jake said, looking u|). 

“Don’t worry about that,” Raymond said. ‘A'all 
just don’t worry about that.” He was moving around 
all the time, picking stuff up off the counter, looking 
at it, then dropping it back in the stalls. “You talk 
like an old woman, Jake. Making too much money, 
that’s what’s the matter with you.” He picked up a 
s]H)tlight and looked it over. ‘A’ou fellows just don’t 
know what you miss sitting around here all the time. 
Right, Paul?” 

"Yeah,” Paul said. 

“^'eah, yall don’t know what you’re missing.” He 
was shining the lense of the spotlight on his shirt. 
Carl was watching him now. “Get tanked up on beer 
and lie in the sun and watch the pretty girlies. 
Nothing like it. 'I'hat’s what you call the life.” 

Carl got up out of the chair and moved over by 
Raymond at the counter. 

"Paul and I really have some times on our little 
exdirsions,” Raymond was saying. “\’ou lellows just 
don’t know.” He wiggled the spotlight around. “Say, 
bow much is this, Carl?” 

“Eight-sixty,” Carl said. “It’s chromium-plated.” 

‘A'eah. 1 see.” 

“ Lhat’s a nice little job,” Carl said. “ I'hey’re good.” 

“1 used to have a Beacon,” Raymond said. “'Lhey’re 

Beacon’s all right. It ain’t as good as this one, 

Jake was watching Irom the desk. “I know a fellow 
had a Beacon and he said he never would have an¬ 
other one. Said they fall apart (piicker’n ativthing he 

.MARCH, 1919 



t\i'i N.iw. li’s a lat t tiH).” 

Paul stooil hack, watching Raynioncl [ingering the 
sj>otliglit. He Itelcl it up. looked at it, turned it over 
and tail his lingers down the side. I'hen he looked at 
Paul. "That’s some little joh, isn’t it. Paul?” 

Paul didn’t sav anything for a minute but just 
stcHHl there w ith his mouth open a little as if he had 
been asked a cjuestion when he wasn’t listening. He 
tried to think again but nothing came out. It was 
like fishing in an empty pond, and he couldn’t find 
ainmore to say about it than he had about the horn. 
Hv now they were all looking at him. “Sure,” he said. 
"Sure. I'hat’s some job.” But the words were uncon- 
\incing and didn’t seem to satisfy them as they kept 
looking at him. “Veah, Raymond, that’s one hell of a 
spotlight. Never saw such a spotlight.” Still, nobody 
said anything. Raymond was looking at him, holding 
the spotlight out and twisting the handle. 

“\\'hat’s the matter with it, then,” Raymond said. 
"Don’t you like it?” 

Then all of a sudden it came out, a kind of w^ave 
that had been pounding at the back of his neck and 
seemed to jmsh forward into his eyes and then just 
pop. They were all still looking at him. “Me? Sure, I 

like it. Sure I do. It’s chromium-plated, isn’t it. Noth 
ing better than a chromium-plated spotlight. By God 
that spotlight’s got a bigger, brighter beam than the 
sun. That’s the mother of all the goddamned spot¬ 
lights in the w'orld!” 

“^Vhat the hell’s the matter with you?” Raymond 

"Nothing,” Paul said. “Not a thing.” Suddenly fell 
a little sick inside, flat and tired as if he had exhaust¬ 
ed himself. He tried a smile and it stiffened on him, 
but he held it and said, “I was just kidding. Why 
don’t you buy it?” 

Then he walked up front and stood in the door 
while they were making change for Raymond. The 
dog wabbled up and sat down by his feet. He stood 
there watching the little white puffs of clouds floating 
over the top of the two-story red brick building across 
the street, not feeling anything. But then he saw Ray¬ 
mond coming and he knew he would say something 
about the beach and he thought if he did, standing 
there holding that spotlight and talking about the 
beach, he w'ould feel like yelling. So he turned and 
started out the door as if he were going for a Coke 
and when he heard Raymond call, he didn’t look back 
but just kept on going. 


by Lewis Buck 

t I ^R.ANSLITERATE the poem of my eyes!” 
I She cries. 

**■ “—a Scriptural proverb of my thighs!” 

(a truth rjbscurely couched.) 

.My lady. 

“La She” 

preadamite you be, 
but time a helix is 
tomorrow' paleolithic. 



though the now'est of your sex, 
of oenomel your tongue 
eryngo on your lips 

nepenthe in the sweat between your breasts. 

Lilith-like; all things old . . . 

and i am drunk with your antiquity. 

let us try again 

moulder of the id 
mistress of the od 
director of the ba 





1-^ ^ 1 T recent years there has been a stronger realization that education in the schools 

and colleges in the United States has become excessively “progressive.” Admin¬ 
istrators, perhaps goaded on by the pressing needs of a country facing war, have laid undue emphasis on spe¬ 
cialization for a career in a limited field. This attitude, brought on by yiecessity, as well as by a money craze 
peculiarly American, is leading toward a dangerously lopsided culture. Actually the problem is very old 
(Sir Francis Bacon recognized it m the Seventeenth Century), but it remains vital and should be brought to 
the fore again and again until some solution is ejected. Richard Van Fossen, from Washington, 1). C., is 
majoring in English and will graduate in June. 



B efore many months have passed, six hundred, 
perhaps eight hundred new Bachelors of Arts 
and Bachelors of Science will emerge from the 
White Elephant to join the increasing throng of col¬ 
lege graduates. But what, in modern American so¬ 
ciety, is the value of a Bachelor’s degree? Is the 
American university man truly an educated man? 

Anyone who thinks for more than a moment on 
either of these questions will surely arrive at an an¬ 
swer that is far from encouraging. Today we see our 
colleges and universities all over the country turning 
out “educated men” on a truly American scale— 
everything bigger and better than ever before, big¬ 
ger and better than anywhere else—but education is 
so skimpy as to be unworthy of the name. 

Duke is probably no better and no worse than the 
average American school, and affords a good example 
of the low ebb to which college training has sunk to¬ 
day. If to be educated means to be properly prepared 
for earning money, then Duke is fulfdling its duty. 
The numbers of engineers and accountants, of busi¬ 
ness administrators and insurance agents are increas¬ 
ing every year. I’he numbers of those who are inter¬ 
ested in education for its own sake are decreasing 

To be sure, it is not the place of the college to turn 
out row after row of cloistered scholars, but it is the 
place of the college to endow its engineers and ac¬ 
countants with more than a commercial education. 

Duke requires oidy three courses of all its students 
—a year of composition, a year of history, economics, 
or political science, a year of science. From that point 
on, a few courses are required of various groups of 
students and the individual is otherwise free to do as 
he wishes—except for the engineers, who are strictly 

regimented to “jnactical” courses. It is possible, even 
cpiite likely, that a student will graduate from Duke 
knowing nothing of the history of his own country, 
nothing of its literature. It is my contention that a 
man cannot be considered to be educated when his 
background includes nothing of his country’s history 
and cidture. It would be inqjossible and undesirable 
to bring this matter down to a column of statistics, 
but I think that we can safely say that more than half 
of the students here are at Duke for a degree, not for 
an education.One of my fraternity brothers was al¬ 
most boastful of the fact that he had never checked a 
book out of the library until his senior year. On the 
bus one hears East-W'est shuttlers ridiciding a course 
in philosophy, chortling over one in sociology in 
which a book was cracked but twice during the semes¬ 
ter—and yet yielded a “B.” It is impossible to avoid 
the scholars who dissect the catalogue and confer with 
their fellows in search of a “crip course.” On registra¬ 
tion day. Oral Interpretation of Literature and Cireek 
Mythology are the courses first placed on the closed 
list. And very few of our budding mythologists are at 
all concerned aliout the great culture which is behind 
the material they study. 

Even the (piality-point system, which supposedly 
keeps the most inferior students from graduating, is 
little more than a joke. I know at least one person 
who is at present in his eleventh semester of college. 
One can have twelve hundred hours to match his 
precious one-hundred-twenty quality points. 

•Moreover, even those who make the highest grades 
are frequently among the least deserving. Anyone 
who is lilessed with a quick mind and no self-respect 
can graduate as a Fhi Beta Kappa if he really wants 
to, whereas many of the students who have real abili- 

MARCH, 1949 



i\. will) s|)ciui ihoir time workint; on original jnoh- 
Uins. nia\ look ntiserable when jiulgeil hy their 
permanent-reiDid i arils. 

reason lor the laik ol stholarshi]) is surely 
the warehouse lull ol ilistraitions tvhieh conlront 
e\er\one Ironi the pla\l)o\’ to the griiul. It is sttintlaril 
proieihire in college like at Duke to complain about 
the absent ol recreation lacilities in Durham, both in 
town aiul on the campus, but most ol my acqnaint- 
anie seem to liiul a great ileal with which to busy 
themsehes. .\ si)ring day will hnd a large contingent 
spending the alternoon at sunbathing, at tennis, at 
goH. anil the evening at carils, at a movie, in drink¬ 
ing beer; not that there is anything wrong with any 
ol these actixities, but it is just conceivable that a 
moment or two might be allotteil at least to dusting 
oil the bookshelves. I'ennis pins studying or movies 
pins studying tend to a normal and balanced lile, but 
tennis pins movies day in anil day out are not particn- 
larlv helplnl in Inrthering the college education. 

There are many extra-cnrricidar activities whose 
value is questionable, and even the beneficial ones 
can be pileil np one iqjon the other to an nnreason- 
able extent. One ol the pre-eminent pastimes oi many 
cam|rns figures is the noble art oi key-collecting; and 
there seems to be some sort oi a contest 
aloot to .see who can belong to the most 
organi/.ations—prooi jjositive oliered by 
the bangles dangling irom the omni¬ 
present key chain. It is a question oi w’ho 
can have the most lines aiter his name 
in the Clianticleer. 

.Now it cannot be denieil that all oi 
the activities which 1 have mentioned— 
and a host oi others—have their place 
in college lile. I>nt they are not by them¬ 
selves college lile. In many respects, 

Duke is better than most schools in the 
matter oi activities and standards. Duke 
does not admit just anyone, and Duke wdll rid itseli 
ol some—even the Greek myth stnilent can go too iar. 
Duke no longer places an nnihie enqjhasis npon inter¬ 
collegiate sports. Duke is certainly no longer at the 
'■(ionntry ilnb oi the South” level. There are, thank 
no courses in mcHion-pictnre production or 
fashion modelling. 

I I IS all very well to be cynical but w'e must also 
think about remedying the situation ii it is really as 

bad as it appears. There are many suggestions that 
one could make, both practical and impractical, anil 
1 ieel that even the more practical improvements will 
have to be regariled as intnre aims. As in so many 
other fields, periection in the educational system can¬ 
not be brought about overnight. . . . What can we 
work towarils? Weil, 1 am above all a believer in a 
liberal education secured by totalitarian means. Duke 
should require an acquaintance with various fields. 
At a supposedly religious institution, why should the 
engineers be exempted from the otherwise required in religion? If foreign languages are to be 
compulsory, wdiy not truly so—compulsory for all? 
In addition, 1 believe that at least two years of English 
should be required of all students, a year of philo¬ 
sophy, two years of science, and a year of American 
history. The curricnlum of the School of Engineering 
should be lengthened to five years in order to ac¬ 
commodate the program. 

Above all, there should be a required discussion 
course, a course with no set aim, simply to acquaint 
the student with contemporary problems, to start him 
thinking for himself. Such a course could meet once 
a week, perhaps in the evening, with a panel of three 
professors to lead the discussion. I shoidd think that 
every professor in the university might serve on such 
a panel once a w'eek; I think that most professors 
woidtl consider such an opportunity to 
he a great privilege. Classes could be 
kept sufficiently small under such a sys¬ 
tem, and teachers would have occasion 
to become acquainted with teachers out¬ 
side their own realm. 

Course examinations serve the pur¬ 
pose of periodic checkiqjs, but a compre¬ 
hensive examination, partly oral, partly 
written, to be given at the end of the 
.senior year would be inestimably bet¬ 
ter. Apparently most people manage to 
absorb enough language to squeeze 
through the three required years, but 
how many could translate the simplest prose at the 
time of their graduation? Comprehensives would pro¬ 
vide a true test of what the senior had learned during 
his four years of college. 

Idle honors program, now defunct in at least one 
department, shoidd be revived and encouraged. 
students capable of original work should be given the 
stinndation—and perhaps prodding—w'hich is neces¬ 
sary to enable them to get the greatest benefit from 
their abilities. 




It is time that we stopped putting so much emphasis 
on the degree system and on college education itsell. 
The hachelor’s degree has come to be associated with 
the Cadillac and the snnimer home as the mark ol 
class distinction. The Ph.I). degree is known in the 
teaching protession as “the union card.” Incompe¬ 
tents are olten given prelerment in onr cidtiire over 
those superior to them in al)ility, simply l) they 
pcKSsess a paper which purports to prove that they 
have spent four years in study. Those who have the 
ability, the desire, and the reasons lor going to col¬ 
lege shcjidd be provided with the means. I’hose who 
have no busine,ss in college shcjidd obtain technical 
or craft training: and the social stigma which has 

been attached to these two for so many years should 
l>e banished frcjin men’s minds. If one man needs two 
years of college training for his chosen career, let him 
get two years: if another recpiiies six years, let him 
follow his course. Such a program would recpiire apti¬ 
tude and intelligence tests much more accurate tlian 
any we have at jjiesent. The day must come when 
man must be evaluated on his intrinsic merits, not on 
his educational term of .service. 

'f'here are those, perhaps a majority, who will 
ridicule all of my pioposals, upholding my very cri¬ 
ticisms as Duke’s outstanding features. I'he ])roblem is 
sim]jly one of Duke’s ftiture. Are we to l)e a tiiie 
liberal arts college, or are we to be a factory for 
turning out wage-earners? 


by Wh.i.i.4m 

T HfS novel I’m writing will be 
For me 

.\ trivial thing — 

Though 1 must own the style is line. 


Has a certain ring. 

With imagery brilliant 1 think, 

.\ link 

With Dante and More. 

Plot is great, the story superl) 

(d'he blurb 

Will tell how 1 soar.) 

I'Unitidirau Trickle I call it — 


.\ncl 1, don’t you know. 

1 he critics? .\h, yes, they’ll delight, 

[list might 

Tompare me with Poe. 

.\ncl readers keen my book will pick 
.\ncl ciuick 

Its they’ll sing. 

\'et this is — 1 said it betimes 
('Fhat rhymes) — 

.\ trivial thing. 

MARCH, l‘H9 





T here \\as Cieorge. the flung rose gripped in his 
leeili. his eyes connnitting scandal as he danced. 
"To Her .Majesty,” the toast had been—‘‘You’d 
tltink site liad permanent shiners,” David said. ‘‘Stand 
up to tlie woman whose hair is like the nest of a 
magnificent bird”—‘‘Ka-ween \’ic-torr-rria!” They 
moved among the brimming beer, the pearlies, the 
Prince .Mberts, the spangled fans, the cpiivering os¬ 
trich feathers. “Jaysus,” the gap-toothed screamed, ‘‘’c 
was wot you'd cowl a bit toit t’ ’ave a bleedin’ kiss at 
'er—at ’er—’AND!” The band pumped, exploded, the 
brasses roamed and struck home, flung leg and pre- 
cisioned, cinematographic step, “’rio,” pitched from 
some mellow corner. George had lifted his bowler and 
was snapping out a yellow lyric. ‘‘She was wot you’d 
C.VLL a pritty sort of GIRL.” The doors Hushed in 
and out. David turned up his coat to nurse a match- 
flame. The cabby said, ‘‘Piccadilly, y’ sy? Y’ said 
awhoyle agow it tvas Totten’m Cowt—Russell 

“Never mind,” David said. ‘‘Piccadilly Circus.” 
‘‘Kissed her hand, did you?” Billy said. ‘And 
next. . . .” 

‘‘Poor devil,” David said. ‘‘She’ll live a glorious hour 
in memoi 7 of that alone. Misery is the margin be¬ 
tween where achievement has reached and where she 
has had to quit. I hope to God you’ve got the tickets.” 

They found her in Victoria Station, looking so prim 
and confident that it was sheer fun to carry her bags, 
to offer her cigarettes, to find a compartment for the 
three. She stood with them at the side, rvatching the 
sea bevel away from the boat. Her eyes were catchy, 
her hair corn. David grew ill, retched at the phos- 
jjhorescence of the wake, and stretched out in the 
lounge, serene in the surge, lift, and mercurial fall. 
Billy took her to the deck, held her forehead while 
she apologized pitifully and catted all at a spasmic 
once. ‘‘There we were,” Billy told her, ‘‘every God’s 
body on the ferry green as arsenic, afraid they were 
going to live, and me and the steward along at the 

bar, fishing out the bottles just as we had a mind to, 
tvith the miserable bartender cold out on the floor.” 
‘‘Forgive me,” she said. ‘‘We’ve forgotten it already,” 
he shouted. Then they sat by David and lit him cig¬ 

They refused a coach at Gate du Nord, lost their 
way in the taxi twice, let her go unwillingly at Place 
de I’Opera and went on to Boulevard St. Germain. 

Francoise w'ore net stockings, an aviary of a chapeau, 
a black bodice. The songs should have been falsetto, 
the music belonged to vaudeville, to button shoes and 
unprintable books innocent of all spelling. ‘‘Look,” 
David said, ‘‘let’s go. Red garters were never my dish.” 

‘‘Wait. I think they can jolay jazz. Then we can 
dance.” “To think,” David said, “that they thought 
motley had something to do with knighthood. My my. 
Them angles and them curves.” 

“Madder music! Stronger wine!” 

“O,” he groaned with his fine-Yl’eau toasting Billy’s 
broad forehead, “I cried for madder music and for 
stronger wine—I have been faithful—the night is mine 
—faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.” “Ghrist,” 
Billy said. Then they danced, very awkwardly, and 
left. Francoise was in the vestiare, exchanging the 
glorious hat for one of black felt, “’n soir, m’ ch’ries.” 

At St. Suljjlice, having stood, again, by the four 
Greek columns bereft of their temple across from the 
Luxembourg Palace, they sat on a bench by the foun¬ 
tain. “There we’ll be,” David said, “drinking at each 
other at a million cocktail parties, from now on.” He 
was bundled in a great coat, his uncut hair bunching 
out over the collar, his face too young for the stubble 
on his cheeks, and the stains beneath his wet eyes. 
“Drinking at each other, all this tilted and spilt, with 
no more moonlight to blanch our ankles, no. . . .” 

“She was saying something like that the other 

“Quit it. Cut it out, child.” 

“Why? What’s the . . .” 

“Look, Billy. Here’s the way it is.” 

Those who reyneynher Guy Davenport’s stories of the South in last 
year's Archive should be interested in his switch to a new locale. He 
recently spent a month in Faris where he found the ynaterial for this story. 




So they had found occasion, opportunity, to talk. 
Talk they did, often cpiietly, young lips pouting, a 
great lighting of cigarettes so that informality, casual¬ 
ness might be found even where the old church stood 
against the sky that w'as infinitely patchwrought with 
the naked fdier of the court’s trees, stood like an in¬ 
spiration for sincerity, for formality and grace, for 
dignity and humility all at once. “Don’t think. Feel. 
Don’t analyze. Just let things happen. People happen 
to one another. You don’t think up a person. That 
person is, without ado, just there with that hand ex¬ 
tended, saying with such a .smile as you’ve never seen 
before, ‘Click once that turnstile, enter with both feet 
slightly diaphanous.’ Nobody is what he supposes he 

is. ” 

George, this time no longer an entertainer in Soho 
but a Bourguignon of Greek ancestry, brought them 
haricots blancs and wished them good health. 

Heathcliti,madder than the mock Victorians,walked 
up and down the Hellenike, 
pulling his disreputable 
gloves on and off, humming 
something Italian, something 
dark. The conversation was 
mostly English, abstract, po¬ 
litical, amatory. Billy was 
quiet, ordering more vi)i 
rouge than was necessary for 
the meal. David had been 
talking mere pleasantries, des¬ 
perate for Billy to say some¬ 
thing. He had been cpiiet all 
day. They had walked, with¬ 
out coinersation, through the 
jardins des Tuilleries. The 
sky had l)een the color of the 
statues, the day as cold. .Sud¬ 
denly Billy became mischie¬ 
vous, teasing. It was an awk¬ 
ward j)lace for an argument, 
but it had to do. “Come off 

it, Billy. Cut it out.” 

Ten minutes later they 

were at the loot of the Rue 
de Seine. If it had not been for David’s class ring 
there would have been no blood. Billy ilid not even 
move his hand to his jaw. David turned, having at 
first decided to walk away very cpiickly, came close to 
Billy, who still had not moved. “Come on with me 
back to the hotel. We might as well see this through, 
finish it up.” 


Instead, things went right. Billy washed his face at 
a fountain; they w'ent to La Rose Rouge laughing. 
“Isn’t it hinny?” David said. “You think there’s some¬ 
thing to fight about and there’s only the—the—the 
desire to . . .” 

“My God. I'here she is.” 

“.\vec un diable de Mo/amljitpie.” 

“1 don’t think so.” 

She .saw them but the music had begun. Tall, 
pur|)le-black Negroes danced with French, English, 
American girls and, because it was late and the mu¬ 
sic had become more tempestuous, with each other, 
muttering Ivory Coast maledictions at the exhausted, 
bored, and even reluctant women. Fhe trumpet asked 
for swiftness, for emotions .so sharj) that they would 
be of unbearable splendor, the drums for dee]) mo¬ 
notony, di.squieting rhythms heard but rarely, fetched 
from the primitive, the melodiously sensuous. .Sepa¬ 
rateness died from personal¬ 
ity: there was sound and mo¬ 
tion which could not help 
btit follow it, and bodies. 
Dance, dance. It was not 
American, none of it; but the 
idiom carried over. Only the 
bottom of the men’s coats was 
buttoned, arotind narrow 
hips. W’iggle them wrists. 
Stoop and follow through. 
Kick. I'here was nothing to 
do but dance and scream. 
There was no stc^pping; the 
rhythms Icqjt in the expect¬ 
ancy of their own perpetual- 
ity. .Vn eternity of jazz and no 
tomorrow. No tomorrow. 

Billy had her at last but 
the music stojiped, the lights 
went low: hall the Negroes 
on the clancellcjor had 
changed into such clcjthes — 
mother hubbards —■ as the 
Drawing By Boh Parks .missionaries brought to their 

cousins at home. Fhen they wailed and blubbered trib¬ 
al .songs. David and Billy had been separated when the 
dancing stopped. Now the room was all hideous color, 
.\Irican drums and .\frican tongues. Someone was 
shouting a poem in a tenor xoice. .My God, Da\ id 
thought, they told us this was .Mrican music in the 
movies but thev never said what it was for or what it 

MARC:H, 1949 



lo \ou. A little Xegfi) tiseil his s^^■eatel■ lor a bttn- 
ilaiia atnl hehl it across his back as he danced Iroin the 
l)ack <■! the room up to where tlie tomtoms and the 
music ians stood in their tall.negroid dignity. 

When the light went u]). Uillv teas gone rvith the 
l.nglish girl. David paid both bills and lelt. Le 
Daphnis was almost em|)t\. as usual. .V girl was nurs¬ 
ing a cat in the corner. A man who looked what an 
arc heologist should look like teas ch inking at the bar. 
David accepted a small eogitae. Marc hauled out his 
board. "Do voii tveesh to play at the leesh?” he said. 
"Merei non." David said. "Pas d'argent.” “For Inn.” 
"]e me sauve. 15on soir.” 

At the .Martincjuaisc he had coffee, hoping to find 
Hillv there. " Fo hell with it all,” he said. “What does 
it amount to? .\ weak bird crying ’Le roi est mort’ to 
a menace, an ounce of inelegance in a mirror that can 
easilv be turned toward light, a pail of water where 
emptiness is misery.” St Sidplice was blanched, stvill- 
ing with moonlight atvash and shadcwvs stricken with 
motion, shrinking with the wind like amoeba during 
the adjustment of the microscope. 

H E FL\D met her at the burnished butt of summer, 
in those moments before the flambeaux and rot of 
auttimn, in the .Vlleghenies. She did not belong there, 
like him. Fifteen years his senior, bright, heavy with 
absent jjageantry, tvhose mother had tossed a rose 
against the window of Echvard’s carriage: the last 
n;se ever tos.setl by a gallant woman at the visage of a 
king, though the window was blank, blind, by a tri- 
umjjh c.)f the sun, and the rose teas faded, a w^oman of 
absolute values, hence all women, passive yet got only 
with entreaty and what symbol of graal-thievery and 
toppling deed we have left, like some woman timeless 
as an tu n, traversing the green and silver of Vergil’s 
melancholy, she had found time and entertainment 
lor him. Quickly, although it w^as comjtlete, fashioned, 
made solid, ckrsed with the age^ny c^f parting, complete 
even to the stipulation that a kncjwledge of .something 
lost, something instinctively abandoned and causing 
regret in a far-back, imprcjininent dimension—a 
flower tucked insignificantly into a freize—must ac- 
comjjany, in the dark heraldry of love, that yellow and 
flagrant red which has been gained, that jrarenthesis 
was closed. .Since no had follow'ed, it was not 
until he sat again in the square beyond the Luxem¬ 
bourg, at St. Sidplice, this time alone, four months 
away from Indian summer in the mountain.s, that he 
•.miled over what had been beauty and W'holeness. 
C/ootl, he thought. Well and good: that happened. 

.\ncl now, if it’s like it is in the books, I’ve done it anti 
that’s some sort of an end, clicking like the catching 
of the frail gate to the rose garden. My my. 

From the rne ties Seminaires, Billy walked into the 
nervously shifting light and shadow of the square. 
David smiled, this time with conq^lacence. “I was 
thinking it over,” he began, “and . . .” 

“Never mind,” Billy said. “Look: is there any apolo¬ 
gizing to be done? 1 mean. . . .” 

“Sure,” David said. “1 know w'hat you mean. These 
things happen and even if it hadn’t happened to us, 
poor devils”—there eyes caught and held a lively stare 
—“there wouldn’t be any apologizing to do. Need a 

“Look: w'e’re going to Italy.” 

“Splendid! I . . .” 

“No. Me and her. She’s going anyway.” 

“Sure,” David said. “Flaul off and go to Italy.” 

“I think I need to apologize for that.” 

“Not in the least. I’m not holding you. We came 
over together but that doesn’t mean a thing.” 

“1 know^ but . . .” 

“Forget it.” 

“All right Sure.” 

“Some peojile read even ‘Timon’ and some ‘Per¬ 
icles,’ ” the fellow' said a week later on Boulevard St. 
Germain, “But nobody, absolutely nobody, reads 
‘King John.’ ” 

“Sure,” David said. “But Shakespeare complete is 
Shakespeare complete. Besides, you learn a great thing 
from it, like you learn from all w'orks of art in which 
the effort has failed but the energy, because of the 
miscarriage, has been left naked and raw, easily ap¬ 
prehended. ‘Do, child, go to it grandam, child,’ the 
old bitch says. ‘Give grandam kingdom, and it gran¬ 
dam w'ill give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig.’ ” 

“But . . .” 

“Nonsense: you see it all. It’s that—I think—it’s 
that I’ve learned to accept out-of-sea.son fruit. It’s bet¬ 
ter than the other.” 

“What other?” 

“Oh, anything else, I suppose, that comes with a 

he good Flerr Doktor Wilhelm Eingold could 
be seen on summer afternoons with his beard on his 
chest walking up Rue Monsieur le Prince in the di¬ 
rection of the Gomedie Fran^aise, Lalle Luxembourg. 
His pipe would be out, his gait propelled by utter 
distraction. Fie fell off the sidewalk now and again. 
It w'as here that he met his conqjanion Georg just at 




dusk and took wine with him near the Senate. 

“Now that they’ve gone,” he said, “there is peace. 
Ihit at what a cost!” 

“'Fiens,” Georg tossed. “They were a Itother.” 

“Cliildren they were, blaming the world lor their 


“You didn’t know either ol them, Georg. They 
could have cut cartwheels at your knees and you 
wouldn’t even have .swallowed uneasily.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Ach, mein liebe Herr, David was, first ol all, a 
young man who wore and loved beautiful jackets, who 
spent his nights writing intricate jrrose that will 

never be published, who had a child’s lace, so that no 
one ever suspected him of being athletic, who could 
be seen at Oxford ami Roulevard St. Germain at the 
same time, who pretended to know all languages but 
who couldn’t understand over ten consecutive words 
of French, who was charming, sentimental, shy, usually 
drunk, withotit will and the willing glove of ca- 

“Nonsense, W'ilhehn, there’s no such person.” 

“Ol course, of course. Fle’s a fable in my mind, con- 
juretl there by years of Yet there was llesh 
and blood to him. 1 once had wine with him and—” 

“Dreams, Wilhelm. Have some more cognac and 
begin again, this time with more, more 


by (ioLi)E Steiner 

I T’S a grapefrtiit, that ball of muted green, 
d'hat streak is a bottle behind it; 

"Fhe blur of purple is night coming on. 
(The card at the bottom defineil it.) 


by CoLBERi SisiriH 

OME read to me some poetry, 

|ust anything you have around, 
just anything—but E/ra me 
No E/ra and Pound me no Pound. 


by Kiefi.n H.we.s 

W INE they .say ])ut.s out Greek lire 
Fhough it burns on water. 

Neither will do for love: 

In tears or uine it llames the better. 

>F\RC;H, 1949 


American Letters 

Ei’dora \Vi;i.ty is one of those provincial Southern writers 
who have pervaded twentieth-century Ainerican Literature. 
/>’■,' ' cr writing, like that of Faulkner, Caldwell, and H'rtrjr/;, has had a peculiar universality in spite of its 
' .:tcd range of subject matter. Xex<er pedestrian and never dull, her short stories axid novels have continued 
ttract the eritic's eye by their unique style and versatility, and have probably earned her a lasting place in 
htc'iiry histoiy. Oi av CiRUx;, a frequent contributor to the Archive, is an English major from Sylva, N. C. He 
plans to enter graduate school here next fall. 


''It Jtas rats and a lot of things — 
a ghost to keep you awake.” 


E I'DORA AVELTV of Jackson, Mississippi, is the 
latest of a line of spinsters who have become 
important in American letters (some others 
were Sarah Orne Jewett, Emily Dickenson, and Willa 
Cather). She is also a part of the new literature which 
has developed in the South in the twentieth century, 
a -ivriter to be considered along with Robert Penn 
arren, \\’iiliam Faulkner, Carson McCullers, Ers- 
kine Cakhvell, and Tennessee ^Vhlliams. Although 
she, like many of the southern writers, has been rug¬ 
gedly individualistic, her writing embodies enough 
of the spirit of the new writing to warrant the impor¬ 
tant jrosition which she has gained. 

Pmdora ^Velty’s first success in writing was at the 
age of five when she wrote an essay “Why We Have 
Easter” and published it, bound in shirt cardboard 
covers. Illustrated by the author wdth a mystifying 
drawing of a rabbit using a telephone, several copies 
were sold at five cents each. 

•She was born in Jack.son in 1909, daughter of the 
head of a southern insurance company and in com¬ 
fortable circumstances. In the .southern tradition, her 
education was “continuous but not serious,” and she 
was allowed freedom to follow her own interests, the 
classics, folk tales, fairy tales, old legends, and the 
like. Her original ambition was to be a painter and 
she is today a skilllul watercolorist and creative pho- 
tographer, two traits which have influenced her 
writing. .She attended Mississippi State College for 
Women, where she founded the first campus literary 
magazine; the L’^niversity of Wisconsin, from which 
she graduated in 1929; and Columbia University 
School of Business where she tried advertising. 

Although there never was any real necessity to earn 
her own living, the time immediately following her 
formal education was occupied in writing everything 
that was said over a small town radio station, and, on 
week ends, writing letters to the station in order to 
keep the job. At the same time she was writing society 
news for the Memphis Commercial Appeal. Eventual¬ 
ly she worked for a while for the government traveling 
about the state and making personal interviews. In 
her own w'ords, “I soon gave up the notion and settled 
down to writing.” 

The decision to spend her full time writing was 
reached in 1936 when one of her stories, “The Death 
of the Traveling Salesman,” was accepted and printed 
by a little magazine, Manuscript, even to the author’s 
own surprise. Encouraged that the first manuscript 
that she offered for publication was accepted, she sub¬ 
mitted “A Piece of News” to the Southern Review. 
Albert Erskine, the editor, immediately proclaimed 
her an important new writer. (It is also interest¬ 
ing to note that Robert Penn Warren and Cleanth 
Brooks, two of the South’s New Critics, were managing 
editors of the Southern Review.) Her stories soon be¬ 
gan to appear in the Prairie Schooner, Decision, 
Harper’s Bazaar, New Directions, and the Atlantic 
Monthly. By 1939 one of her stories, “The Petrified 
Man,” was chosen as one of the best stories of the 
year and printed in the O. Henry Memorial Award 
Prize Stories. In the next seven years she was repre¬ 
sented seven times in the O. Henry volumes of best 
stories of the year and two of them, “The Wide Net” 
in 1942 and “Livvie is Back” in 1943, were chosen as 
single best stories of the year. In addition, four of her 




short stories were printed in the annual Best Short 
Stories now edited l)y Martha Foley. She also wrote 
two novels. This impressive success, all within one 
decade of her first published short story, is evidence 
of the fact that she suddenly appeared on the literary 
scene as a fully developed writer. 

^^ISS Welty’s first volume, A Curtain of Greeri 
(Doubleday, 1941), a collection of her short stories, 
emphasized the expertness and skill of her writing. 
In the collection can be seen the intensity which 
characterizes her writing. This intensity, which creates 
short stories that are almost a reality in themselves, 
is almost the only identifying similarity between the 
stories because each one is distinct, purely individual, 
and, most important, the style of each story grows out 
of the subject matter. She explains: “I certainly 
never think of wlio’s going to read it. I don’t see hotv 
any one cotild. I don’t think of myself either. I just 
think of what I’m writing. That’s enough to do.” Ac¬ 
cording to Eudora Welty, the real meaning of any 
fiction comes from a central core of mystery. The 
mystery in any story, some¬ 
thing of impersonal separa¬ 
tion between author and ma¬ 
terial, has the virtue of being 
not a message from author to 
reader but a source of inspira¬ 
tion or suggestion to him. 

The story is, in effect, a cata¬ 
lyst which is to stiimdate the 
mind of every reader, perhaps 
in a different way. The fact 
that there is some mystery—a 
deliberate omission in the 
structure of the story—per¬ 
mits each reader to fill in the 
gap in such a way as to ])ro- 
duce the deepest and most in¬ 
tense meaning which is pos¬ 
sible for that reader. If read¬ 
ers do not like to have to fill 
in some part of the structure 
themselves, then they do not 
enjoy Eudora Welty’s short stories. The editors of the 
New Yorker, for instance, do not like her short stories 
and have never printed them. 

At one of the parties in her honor on pul)lication 
day of A Curtain of Green in New York, Miss ^\'clty 
was reassured al^out the .sale of her book liy an actress 
who was present. “I think it’s simply wonderfid of you 

to have written a book,” she said. “I expect you’ll 
make a lot of money out of it.” Miss AVelty replied 
tliat she did not expect too much because “You know 
short stories aren’t apt to sell.” The actress replied, 
“But, my dear, I wouldn’t say that. I l)elieve de Mau- 
jxissant sold terribly well!” Eudora 'Welty, who did 
not learn much directly from de Maupas.sant, also 
did well at the book stalls. Her pre-occupation with 
the abnormal and deformed was accepted by a public 
which also absorbed the highly spiced writing of 
Faulkner, Caldwell, 'Warren, and later, I'ruman Ca- 
jjote, but it was her treatment of that material which 
impressed readers. 

A second volume. The Robber Bridegroom 
(Doubleday, 1912), is little more than a very long 
short story. It is about a bandit chief and Rosamond, 
the beautiful daughter of a Mississippi planter, and 
most of the action is pure romance. Bandits carry 
young maidens away to huts in the forest; a voice 
speaks from a mysterious trunk but it must not be 
opened; they slice off one another’s heads at the slight¬ 
est provocation. The scene is a frontier where any¬ 
thing can happen but where each action is significant. 

There are well-developed 
characters and an allegorical 
meaning to the fantasy. The 
Robber Bridegroom has been 
compared to Virginia 'Woolf’s 
Orlando, also a fantasy and 
allegory, because both are 
closely connected with the 
authors’ own lives and minds. 
For this reason both books 
have been criticized as being 
somewhat mystifying as to 
exactly what the allegory 
means. Eudora AVelty’s mysti¬ 
fication, however, seems in¬ 
tentional; it is part of the at- 
mosj)here which she deems 
necessary in a good story. She 
says: “The first thing we 
notice about our story is that 
we can’t really see the .solid 
outlines of it — it seems 
bathed in something of its own. It is wrap[)cil in an at¬ 
mosphere. This is what makes it shine, ])erhaps, as 
well as what initially obscures its plain, real shape.” 
This atmosphere can come from action, character, or 
style. Whether or not we agree with that recjuirement 
for a good story, we must admit that .she has accom¬ 
plished the aim in her own stories. 

MARC:H, 1949 



M Xcl (Hartouit. Hracc. 191a) ilicl not rc- 
ni\c the uiKjualilicil approval that A C'urtain of 
(• ,ry> iliil l^^o voars hcl'orc. The reason is probably 
that the short stories in the \()hnne are considerably 
ntore inxobecl in lantasv than their predecessors. On 
the whole thev are less impressive than the \vritins> in 
her two ])re\ ions books, in spite ol the lact that “1 he 
Wide Net" and "l.iwie” tverc chosen best stories ol 
the vear in 1911’ and 19111. In reaction from the ex¬ 
treme lantasv of The Wide Xet. her secotid novel 
Della Wedditoj^ is almost completely free from fantasy 
■ as well as from jtlot). 

De/Zet ]]'eddi>i<i (Harconrt, Brace, 1946) is a novel 
about the Fairchild family, told by Laura McRaven, 
nitie. visitinw Battle and Ellen Fairchild at their ]jlan- 
tation. .Shelhnonnd, on the event of her cousin Dab- 
nev’s wedding to Troy F'lavin, the plantation over¬ 
seer. George, the younger brother, who is the family’s 
idol, arrives with the news that his wife Robbie Reid 
:who is “common”) has left him. The whole family, 
inclnding the F'airchilcl children from trvo to eighteen; 
senile old aunts .Mac and Shannon; Afaiireen, a child 
of dead brother Denis who is not quite right in her 
head; Tempe Summers and grandchild Lady Clare 
Buchanan from Inverness; and still more come to 
Shellmound for the big occasion of the wedding of a 
daughter of the family. George’s tvife finally comes 
also, walking across the dusty fields from town, and 
the two are reconciled. They make plans to rettirn to 
the delta country to live at the Grove, another fantily 
])lantation. “"^’es, I know, it has rats,” George says, 
“and a lot of things—a ghost to keep you aw'ake, and 
also it’s the place Denis was going to come back to 
and raise a houseful of healthy offspring.” All in all, 
it is a study of how a southern family absorbs its 
new inlaws into itself without sacrificing its own 
identity nor its own character, ft is much the same 
problem as Faulkner writes of at times; the problem 
of maintaining identity—of having children who go 
on. That is the problem of Po]jeye in Sanctuary; it 
is the knowledge that at his own death he and his 
blood will die together. Often in Faulkner’s novels 
the hall-breeds—“half-witted saddle-colored” beings— 
are triumphant, and the old w4iite and Negro families 
lose their identity in a mingling of the bloods. Eudora 
Welty’s world is more hopeftil than that. The Negroes 
are not alone in having a future. Both Faulkner and 
Miss Welty consider contemporary southern life (and 
all modern society by implication) one of mctral con¬ 

fusion and social decay, but in Delta Wedding there 
is a conspicuous lack of the violence which charac¬ 
terizes F'aulkner’s novels and those of other modern 
writers protraying moral and social conditions. 

Perhaps the most significant aspect of Delta Wed¬ 
ding is its point of view or, sometimes, lack of it. The 
novel is a more complete realization of the technique 
used in her best short stories tvhen it seems that the 
story is written from the inside out; the form of the 
novel and the style are so w'ell suited to the material 
that the writer seems not to have a detachment from 
the story so much as a complete surrender, for the 
moment, to the story at hand. The effect of this 
method is to create a piece of writing which is vir¬ 
tually complete in itself, ft is this fact which has 
brought acclaim to Eudora Welty from some of the 
New Critics (notably Cleanth Brooks and Robert 
Penn Warren) whose basis of criticism is close textual 

IS ECAUSE her style is the most important ele¬ 
ment in developing atmosphere in her writing, no 
discussion can communicate the real quality of it. 
Neither can her versatility be described in full, except 
to say that the stories range from reportorial realism 
to absolute fantasy. Her use of fantasy, however, is 
singular in that it is used to effect a more positive 
realism; that is, there is a mingling of reality and 
fantasy which in the end transcends either and re¬ 
veals the true kernel of meaning in the story. Her 
method is similar to Hawthorne’s, who also blended 
reality and imagination for the same end. Her writ¬ 
ing is close to Melville’s in technique in that it can 
be read equally well on siq:)erficial, character, and 
allegorical levels. Her short stories are entertaining- 
fairy tales, yet the men and women in them are real 
jjeople. The symbolic meaning is usually inexpressi¬ 
ble except as she has expressed it, seemingly a mark 
of success (finding the one way an important idea 
can be expressed and then accomplishing it) . 

One of Eudora Welty’s best short stories, and it is 
as typical as any, is “Powerhouse,” published in the 
Atlantic Monthly. It is the simple story of a Negro 
band leader Powerhouse who hears that his wife has 
committed suicide. The story grows into the expres¬ 
sion of pagan jazz rhythms which originated in New 
Orleans jazz. The dialogue, together with amazing 
descriptive passages, mounts toward an undulating 
climax at the end of the story. It is obvious that it is 
impossible to imitate Eudora Welty’s style of writing. 




except in approach. Each short story and novel make 
every imitative successor nothing more than a halt- 
hearted parody. 

“Keela the Outcast Indian Maiden,” originally pub¬ 
lished in New Directions 1940, is about Little Lee 
Roy, a Negro man who once was forced to live in a 
cage dressed as an Indian girl and eat live chickens 
and drink their blood. When his identity became 
known, the circus barker became obsessed with guilt 
from having unwittingly been a party to the crime. 
At the time of the story Little Lee Roy, w'ho has al¬ 
ways been insane enough not to mind the horror of 
eating live chickens, is perfectly quiet and contented, 
but the barker, who has been normal and sane, has 
become mad from his feeling of guilt. He finds it im¬ 
possible to make amends and goes insane. This is an 
expression of Eudora Welty’s important theme of in¬ 
sane people living in an insane world (and who are 
therefore normal for that world) . 

T^ODAY at forty Miss Welty is only at the age when 
many writers find their best writing yet to come. A 
spinster with no family to restrict and detain her. 

she probably will continue to write. Her development 
in writing so far has been noted rather in the versatil¬ 
ity of her ability than in a progress in technique. She 
has not learned much directly from other writers but 
has been an individualist and has experimented to 
form her own style. She has therefore been less restrict¬ 
ed by rigid techniijues than most writers and more free 
to tell her stories in the most natural and effective 
way. One almost has the impression that she would 
be writing the same stories in the same w'ays even if 
she had never seen nor heard of any contemporary 
writer. There is little echo of past literature in her 
writing except of myth and legend, much of which 
she invents herself. She has developed not so much 
in the contemporary world as in her own mind and 
in her own limitetl environment, in which she sees 
the mind and world of every man. 

At such an early date, only thirteen years after she 
began writing seriously, it is impossible to say whether 
she will be a major writer. It may be that she is only 
a high point of development in American writing and 
will not turn out to be au important influence on fu¬ 
ture writers. It must be admitted, in any event, that 
her record so far has been extremely impre.ssive. 

The Anne Flexner Memorial Award is given annually for the best piece of creative writing 
submitted by an undergraduate student at Duke University. It consists of a book bearing tbe 
Anne Flexner Memorial Award bookplate and fifty dollars in cash. 

This prize has been estal)lished l>y the friends and family of Anne Flexner who gradu¬ 
ated from Duke University in 1945. While an undergraduate at Duke, Miss Flexner was in¬ 
terested in creative writing and was regarded by her instructors and lellow-students as a prom¬ 
ising stmlent and a friendly, attractive personality. Following her death her friends initiated 
a motion to estaljlish at Duke Ihiiversity an annual jn i/.e in creative writing as a memoi ial to 
her. The prize will be awarded for the second time this year. 

4'he manuscripts will l)e read by the ,\nne Flexner .Memorial Uommittee and the prize 
will be awarded at commencement. Fhe committee for 1918-19 is as follows: 

.Mr. William Blackburn, Uhairniau of the Uommittee 

.Mr. VVhlliam H. Irving, Acting (Chairman, Department ol English 

Mr. F.rnest William Nelson, Department of History Gene Richardson, President, Uhi Delta Phi 

.Miss Doris Uharrier, Poetry Editor, Fhe Archive 

(See F.nglish Office lor Details.) 

MARCH, 1949 



Restraint and Intelligence Vivify Novel of the War 

1 HI ^C)^\(; LIONS 
H\ Irwin Sh;iw. 

Rand-i'ii IIcusc. 

• 'SW pa^fN. 

Reviewctl by 
W 11 i.iAM H. Smigi-.r Ill 

TT HE ) ()ung Lions is a long, con- 
linonslv iiueresting novel covering 
the vears Irom 19S8 through the col¬ 
lapse ol (.ennany, and one wishes, 
upon finishing it that the total im- 
jxict had been as impressive as that 
of manv ol the parts. 1 am not 
damning it with taint praise, for 
.Mr. Irwin Shaw has written a fine, 
intelligent book full of real people 
whose lives, I’m sure, strike many 
familiar notes with any reader. 

W'e meet first of all Ohristian 
Diestl, a skiing instructor at a small 
.\nstrian winter resort. To call him 
a \onng, idealistic Nazi who sincere¬ 
ly believes that the end justifies the 
means, is not altogether accurate, 
for Mr. Shaw never allows his char- 
ai ters, jrarticidarly the three leading 
ones, to become typed or to fit per¬ 
fectly into an established pattern. 
(Christian, like the two .\mericans, 
.Midiael Whitacre and Noah Acker¬ 
man, whose lives we follow' for the 
same amount of time, is an individ¬ 
ual. It is through (Christian that tve 
witness the rise aiul fall of Cfermany. 
In his decline Irom a man of ideals, 
limited by his own failings as a per- 
s(m, to a Inutal animal stopping at 
nothing in his fight for survival, 
Shaw has created an intensely real 
pel son. (Christian moves with the 
C/erman army into Paris; he travels 
back tcj lierlin, to the flambcjyant, 
dejjravetl life ol the capital city at 


the peak of the Nazi sticcess; he is 
later wounded and sent to ;in in¬ 
credibly dismal hospital: and in the 
end he is stalked like a beast in a 
lorest near a liberated concentration 
camp. Because Shatv is more detach¬ 
ed when dealing tvith Christian, and 
because the tiverage reader has no 
basis of comparison in his own per¬ 
sonal experience with the events of 
Christian’s background and life, his 
personality comes through with 
startling clarity and realism, but 
with slightly less force than the two 

By William Faulkner. 

Random House, 

247 pages. 

Review'ed by Colkert Smith 

Will. AM FAULKNER’S latest 

novel, Intruder in the Dust, which 
has been published for some months 
now, has definitely not caused the 
uproar that a novel by the leading 
author erf America should cause, ft 
is not a great book; it does not meas¬ 
ure up to some of his previous ones; 
but it is not a grimly disappointing- 
novel. It should not be brushed 
aside because it is an important con- 
trilnition to the Faulkner Legend 
of the South. This novel contains 
some of the things that F’aulkner has 
already said; perhaps he has .said 
them better and w'ith more clarity 
this time. 

y\lthough Faulkner’s subject in 
this novel is the almost certain 

Americans, perhaps because Shaw ; 
a little more preoccupied with t’ 
conditions surrounding Christi: 
than the development of the ch; 
acter. The background takes a d'| 
inite secondary place when Micht 
or Noah appear. 

Michael, a semisuccessful your 
playwT'ight, living on the fringes 
the New York-Hollywood comm 
ters set, enlists in the Army as 
private because he feels he mu 
somehow pay for the holiday k 
{Continued on Page 28) 

lynching of a Negro, the book is m 
a message on the Race Question, 
is no more a novel of social criticis; 
than any other of his books. It 
simply the account of a white bo 
Charles Mallison, and his conflii 
W'ith a Negro man of aristocratic a 
titude and ancestry who gets hiii 
self into trouble by killing, or so 
appeared, a white man. The be 
considers the Negro a human heir 
first and a Negro second. And he 
a special Negro of heroic statin 
and wdll, of above normal intell 
gence, but w'ho has some prejudici 
of his own. It is he, Lucas Beai 
champ, W'ho is the protagonist of tfi 
novel; but more important, it is h 
W'ho is the master of the situatio 
throughout. The boy is virtually h 
slave. This relationship betw'een tli 
two is possible since the boy is di 
scended from aristocracy himself. I 
ante-bellum South the aristocrat! 
white and the Negro lived the .sam 

William Faulkner Produces Another 
Chapter in His Legend of the South 


The Sign Of 
The Cock 
For Quality Shoes 

Our Business Is Built On 




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Phone F-6491 


Meet The Gang 
At. . . 


• Hungarian Goulash 
• Spaghetti 
• Sea Food 
• Steaks 

Students Always 

109 N. (iregson 
Phone 9-22r)(i 

kind of life (on different levels, of 
course) in contrast to the Poor 
White Trash. But although the Ne¬ 
gro is the master and the white boy 
is slave, it is the boy’s story. He is the 
one who must undergo a conflict 
with the adament Lucas, who is in 
no way a symbol of the Negro race 
in general but he is the symbol of 
the negroid type that will outlive 
the whites, in Faulkner’s opinion, as 
was expressed in another of his 

They will endure. T hey are better than 
we are. . . . Stronger than we are. . . . 
T heir vices are vices aped from white 
men or that white men and bondage 
have tatiglit them: improvidence and in¬ 
temperance and evasion — not laziness 
. . . and their virtues are their own: en¬ 
durance and pity and tolerance and for¬ 
bearance and fidelity and love of cliil- 
tlren. whether their own or not or black 
or not. 

The boy is no better than most 
“liberal” Southerners; he has his 
moments of bigotry. After Lucas had 
fished him out of an icy creek and 
had taken him to his cabin to dry 
his clothes and had fed him collards 
and cornbread and had refused to 
accept his money in payment, the 
boy felt indebted to him, painfully 
indebted because one must not owe 
anything to a Negro, a Negro who 
refused to act like a Negro. This in¬ 
debtedness to Lucas, leads the white 
boy to attempt to prove his inno¬ 
cence, which has to be done in an 
extremely short time because a 
lynching is naturally and quite cas¬ 
ually expected under the leadership 
of the murdered man’s kinlolks. 
And it is the indebtedness to Lucas 
that makes (iharles Mallison his 

Gharles Mallison’s exciting and 
often grim adventures, including the 
digging up of a body in a cemetery 
in a much too iirsalubrious section 
of the county, make tor suspenseful 
reading. It would be too much to 
try to glean from tlie great amount 
of wordage that is employed to tell 
this story that Faulkner wanted to 
present a .solution to the race (|ues- 
tion; he only wanted to give an 
opinion. That was his, and 




Durham’s Foremost 

Packing Is A 
Disagreeable Job 

Packing twice is twice as bad. 
.Save double trouble by stor¬ 
ing lurs and winter woolens 
with us during summer vaca¬ 
tion time. Ciall for them when 
you’re ready to wear them 
again next fall. 

810 West Main Street 
Most Convenient for 
Duke Students 

733 Foster Street 
.Main Office 


Put ZIP 

into your car 

★ Ge: back to "like new" 

★ Our Service Department 
is staffed by experts, 
modernly equipped and 
stocked with genuine 
Hudson parts. 

★ We make only fair charges 
at established rates. Drive 
in—for Hudson 

Durham Hudson Corp. 

Morgan and Gregson Sts. 
Telephone J-3001 

it was wortlnvhile. But the way in 
tvhiih Faulkner tries to accomplish 
his purpose seems to have bothered 
critics everywhere, who found his slipshod and irksome. One re¬ 
viewer saitl unthinkingly: "his syn¬ 
tax comes close to being a perversion 
of language.” But actually the gnarl¬ 
ed and twisted and jrarenthesized 
sentences are used mainly to give the 
effect of stream of conscience and 
they pertain to the workings in the 
mind of the boy, Charles Mallison, 
who was undergoing a muddled and 
confused phase of his existance; his 
thoughts coidd well have been form¬ 
ed of unattached clauses, dangling 
participles, and parentheses within 
parentheses. My complaint is that 
the boy’s confusion is sometimes the 
reader’s confusion because some of 
the crucial points and turns of the 
story are concealed almost impene¬ 
trably in the entangled and en- 
foliaged vines of thought twisting 
around in the hero’s mind. But /? 2 - 
tnider in the Dust has the singleness 
of purpose which goes into making 
this novel more unified than some 
of his more famous volumes, and 
thus, in one way, it is a better novel. 
• • • 


(Continued from Page 26) 
life has been. But his ideals, too, 
are tempered by the chain of events 
that follow. Michael’s growth into a 
full, mature man is one of Shaw’s 
most important themes; so impor¬ 
tant, that, at the end, it is Michael 
who is left with the symbolic res¬ 
ponsibility of l)eing one of the 
world’s necessary “human beings.” 

The third leading figure of The 
Young Lions is Noah y\ckerman, a 
rootless, lonely Jew, who learns that 
brutality is not all on the side of 
the enemy, a lesson shared by the 
others le,ss forcibly. In dealing with 
Noah, Mr. Shaw has written some ol 
his best pa.ssages, particularly the 
.scene in which Noah travels to a 
small town in Vermont to meet his 
prospective bride’s family, one of 
the many .sequences where the char¬ 

acters act as three-dimensional i- 
man beings, doing what they wo ,1 
actually do, and not what an autl i 
might have them do. 

There are dozens of other peo e 
appearing on the pages of 7e 
Young Lions, and they range \ 
plausibility from absolute to ir - 
existent. The good characterizatic s 
are so good that one can easily 1- 
give the few pnper-mache figu s 
who fail to come to life. Vivid in ly 
memory are Hope, Noah’s wife, W) 
convincingly overcomes her ri^tl 
New England training and gives i 
to the warmth and understanding 1 
mature love; Lt. Hardenburg, Chi- 
tian’s commanding officer, win; 
loyalty to the German cause is sou¬ 
thing truly gruesone to witness; a:l 
his equally avid wife, Gretche, 
whose greedy cravings are in a me: 
sensuous path, and with whci 
Christian spends a leave in Berli; 
Captain Colclough, the all too fain 
iar blowhard who displays the bi 
variety of armchair courage tint 
of course, it is put to the test in 
brilliant description of the invask 
of Europe; Lt. Green, his count! 
part, who quietly and heroical 
does what must be done, in spite 
the fact that his life, like so mai 
others, never seems to be leading i 
to such crucial tests; the "Peruviai 
Sergeant at the European replac 
ment center whose speech to tl 

Protect This 




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John A. Buchanan, president 



You’ll find 
every kind of 
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in Durham’s 
oldest hank . .. 



• Member Federal Reserve System 

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4 Convenient Locations 
Main at Corcoran 
Ninth at Perry 
Driver at Angier 
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The Home of Good Food 

Steaks — Chops 
Made to Order Sandwiches 
Special Plate Lunches 



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“"y/ie friendly Sank Since 1905' 

Member Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation 

■ -—^ -- 

Gosh, the suspense is getting me! 
Wish I had a Life Saver! 

i/Ef 5 AVm 

still only 5f5 


for the best wisecrack! 

What is the best joke that you heard on the campus this week? 
For the bent line submitted to the editor each month by one of the 
students, there will be a free award of an attractive cellophane, 
wrapped assortment of ail the Life Saver flavors. 

men waiting to be shipped to dif . 
ent fighting areas is chilling inde ; 
and many others. 

Mr. Shaw does not choose ) 
preach, rather he dramatizes all » 
points he wishes to make. There s 
an element of restraint in nearly 1 
the book, and even at the end, wl i 
one might suspect that he wod 
give in to the desire to write lc» 
“purple” passages, he keeps his t 
admirably controlled. Here he p- 
haps was helped by the lambasti; 
the critics gave his recent play 7 ? 
Assassi?!. At any rate, his points 
not obscure. Michael, as well as yi 
and I, and everyone tvho 11\1 
through the war, must assume t* 
difficult task of living our lives s 
sincere and mature human bein, 
for that is the world’s only hope. 

• • • 


(Continued from Page 5) 
mercial success, but with artis; 
values. Its purpose is to offer int- 
lectual opportunities otherwise r 
available. Whether a performer ; 
new or old, publicized or liti' 
known, expensive or inexpensive, i 
unimportant so long as he can gi: 
a musically worthwhile conce. 
With as few concerts as we ha\, 
every single one must count. 

The Real Issue 
The issue at the bottom of all 
this is actually something nuii 
more important than the sni; 
shortcomings of a single conce 
series. It is the conflict at the ba; 
of our education-for-the-masses pi 
gram as to whether standards are 
be lowered for the masses or tl 
masses raised to the standartls, a co 
Hict which derives from the natii 
of our commercialized society. V 
cannot control the situation, I)' 
must do what w'e can to imjjrove it 
If we stutlents are not satisfied 
the future with the programing 
the orchestral concerts, we have on 
ourselves to blame. Mr. Barnes d 
serves thanks for giving students tl 
opportunity to participate in tl 
selecting. • • • 



Twice here in red, two-thirds in white, 
Explains just why a Chesterfield’s right, 

Four are shown and all the same 
In color and shape, but not in fame. 

You’ve no doubt heard it noised about that 
oysters “R” in season. 

One glance at lovely Linda and you’re sure 
to see the reason. 



1. Identify the 3 subjects in back cover ad. All clues are in ad. 

2 . Submit answers on Chesterfield wrapper or reasonable facsimile to this publication office. 

3. First ten correct answers win one carton of Chesterfield Cigarettes each. 

4. Enter as many as you like, but one Chesterfield wrapper or facsimile must accompany each entry. 
; 5. Contest closes midnight, one week after this issue's publication date. New contest next issue. 

6. Answers and names of winners will appear in the next issue. 

7. All answers become the property of Chesterfield. 

8. Decision of judges will be final. 

DANA ANDREWS and C. D. ALLEN talking about Chesterfield. 

Mr. A(ndrews) says “They’re mild and they taste good.” 

Mr. A(llen) says “I’ve been smoking Chesterfield ever since they used 
to put them up in a cardboard box.” 

P DANA ANDREWS in “NO MINOR VICES.” (The sequence refers to 
the number of letters in the three words of the picture title). 

Q Answer: SEMORA. Spelling backward (AROMES) you change E to A 
and get fragrant smells (AROMAS). 


Chesterfield Humor Magazine 
Contest Winners 

Albert S. Schoonniaker 
Mary Ruth Lake 
Grant Hurst 
Eileen Mund 
Robert Buchanan 
Bob Barker 
Bob Midgettc 
Norman R. Starks 
Eom Henderson 
Ton Kenaston 

Flintom’s Esso Service 

Complete Line of 

Esso Products 

Specialized Lubrication 

404 W. Chapel Hill St. 
Phone N-0071 


s Ojf to Duke Stua 

In past years we have been proud to serve 




the Duke Students. In doing so we feel we 



1 have had a small part in aiding yon to realize ^ 


yonr high ho]3es for the future. 

It is onr desire to continue to serve you 

now and in the years to come. 








Fraternity and 
SORORITY Stationery 





Dance Invitations 




IN 1904 





Motor Co. 


Sales and Service 

N. W. Hilliard 
Service Manager 

616 Chapel Hill St. 
Phone R-745 


'gad. I SAT DOWN TOO HARD^//| 

706 Rigsbee Ave. 
Phone F-6001 




Owned and Operated For 
Your Convenience By 

Duke University 

Duke University Men’s Stores | 
Women’s College Store ' 


Hospital Store 



want to look like a million! 

It’s the sparkling spring fashion collection 
by Judy ’n Jill, in Durham, exclusively at 
The Young Modern Shop. 

I've been smoking Chesterfields ever since 
I've been smoking. They buy the best cigarette 
tobacco grown... it's MILD , sweet tobacco." 



Copyright 19'19, Liccett & Myers Tobacco Co. 

I nncini^ 


h(“(‘;iiise il’s ] 
ifsl' (•igaretle'.’ 

May, 1949 

THE 4 ^ 




THE LADY ALL FORLORN by eileen taylor mcClay 








Voted the "Rookie of the Year” in 
the American League with an earned 
run average of 2.43, Gene w'as the 
pitching hero of the ’48 World 
Series...stepping out on the mound 
to wrap up two big climax games 
for the Cleveland Indians. 


After many sea¬ 
sons with the 
Reds, he has 
more strikeouts 
to his record 
than any pitch¬ 
er on the Club. 
Vander Meer is 
the only big 
leaguer to pitch 
two "no-hit” 
games in a row. 


iVe smoked 


10 /EARS,6ENE, 


right,van! its 



THE 30-day 

In a recent test of hundreds of people who smoked only Camels for 30 days, noted throat specialists, making weekly examinations, reported 


IRRITATION due to smoking CAMELS 

• Have YOU made the popular Camel 30-Day 
Test.^ The doctors’ findings in the recent coast-to- 
coast test of Camel mildness speak for themselves. 
But why not make your own personal 30-day test 
of Camel Mildness? 

Yes, smoke Camels and test them in your "T- 
Zone” (T for taste, T for throat). Let your own 
taste tell you about the rich, full flavor of Camel’s 
choice tobaccos. Let your own throat report on 
Camel’s cool, cool mildness. 

Try Camels and test them as you smoke 
them. If, at any time, you are not con¬ 
vinced that Camels are the mildest 
cigarette you ever smoked, return the 
package with the unused Camels and 
we will refund its full purchase price, 
plus postage. (Signed) R. J. Reynolds 
Tobacco Company, Winston-Salem, 
North Carolina. 

M.y. 1949 


A tnoMcr nutMoiCAt wujiKtv tit rHtfivimttsa* wttVKtvtKart 

THE LADY ALL FORIOHN h* rims TAttoft ifcctAT 



Editor: Colbert Smith, Associate 
Editor: Jack Stringer, Coed Editor: 
Sally Byrne, Music Editor: Dan 
Patterson, Poetry Editor: Doris 
Charrier, Editor Ejrieritus: R. D. 

Assistants: Clarence Brown, Car¬ 
rie Chamberlain, Cynthia Huyler, 
Taye Taylor, Mary Hendricks, 
Mary Waybright, Malcolm Ma¬ 
caw, Norma Martin, Nancy Col¬ 
lier, Don McCullen. 

Business Manager: Jack Sisson, As- 
■ sistant Business Manager: Stan Hhd- 
|vion. Coed Business Manager: Mari- 
ilLYN Myers, Advertising Manager: 
Buddy Goznell, Exchange Editor: 
t >AM Harvey, Ad Layout Manager: 
’ Lrish Wright, Circulation Mana¬ 
ger: Rob Buchanan, Office Mana¬ 
ger: Margaret O’Neal. 

Assistants: Frank Weidman, Jim 
jiTOTTLER, Dave Watson, Bud 
(George, J. W . Wooi.ard, Ben Mc- 
fUALL, Hal Lynch, Martin Miazza, 
pORis Leei’er, a. J. Brock. 


A Literary Periodical Published By The Students Of 
Duke University, Durham North Carolina 

VoL. 62 May, 1949 No. 4 



Notes on the Arena Stage 

By Don McCullen 


Sketches: William Klenz 

By Dan Patterson 



By Robert Rich 



The Lady Ali. Forlorn 

By Eileen Taylor McClay 


^VE’LL Gome Back . 

By Norma Martin 



By Colbert Smith 



Summer Reflection 

By Robert IF, Wagner 


Emerson at Milking Time 

By Cormvall Image 



By Robert IF’. TFflgrif'r 



By Doris Charrier 


Milton’s Philosophy 

By Cornivall Image 



Scraps For hie Luerah 

By R. D. Loomis 


The Eduor’s Notebook 


Books: Fruman CIapote 

By (.htay Origg 

Cover by Jack Stringer 


notice of ENTRY: "Acceptance for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in Section 1103, 
Act of Oaober 3, 1917, Authorized December 4. 1924, ' Entered as second-class mail matter at the 
Post Office at Durham, N, C, 

Published quarterly January, March, May, and November by the students of Duke University, 

The publication of articles on controversial topics does not necessarily mean that the Editor or the Uni¬ 
versity endorses them. The names and descriptions of all characters in the fiction of this magazine are 
fictitious. Any resemblance to any person or persons is not intended and is purely coincidental. 
Copyright, May 1949, by John P Sisson 




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AO LOOK back and try to sum 
ujr in a lew words the last lour years 
of literary activity at Duke would lie 
well It i g It impossible: to make 
]U'ophecics, hopeftd or otherwise, 
would not only lie foolish lint pre- 
tentiotis; and to become sentimental 
over the “passing of all this” for 
oneself would certainly lie much 
worse than either of the above. 
Nevertheless the fact of the matter 
remains that this is the last time 
“Sciaps” will he written, and the 
usual stdiject matter of this column 
seems inapropriate now. Perhaps the 
wisest course in the end would he to 
attempt a random (but necessarily 
fragment.iry) picture ol Duke liter¬ 
ary life. 

Duke 1949: Indian .Summer 
Ihvice in its history Duke has had 
what might he truly called a flow¬ 
ering of literary talent. The lirst oc- 
cured about ten years ago, the sec¬ 
ond is only trvo years behind us, and 
today oui treative writing is in an 
Indian summer, rhere was not real¬ 
ly one outstanding writer on the 
campus this year; yet there was 
enough good wiiting, taken collec¬ 
tively, to alhnv the North (iarolina 
Collegiate Press .Vssociation to 
choose the Avchix'e as the literary 
maga/ine having the best content. 
.And this was no mean feat consid¬ 
ering the fact that the Arch ire was 



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in coinpciilion with such niaga/ines 
as the ('.(D'oli> 1(1 (hunlcyly, which has 
lolt no (jualms over filling its pages 
Avith professional and non-l'ni\er- 
sitv talent. 

Looking Backward 

Nevertheless, as stated above, 
Duke's literati have knocvn better 
times. Heyotid the memory of most 
of us is the literary heyday of Lor- 
enze Eitner ;ind George Zabriskie. 
They atid their group livened the 
scene not only by their cvriting but 
also by their personalities; and while 
much of it certainly teas affected and 
very noticeably an attempt to “live 
the myth” of the aesthete, they did 
manage to impart a vitality to their 
work (as reffected in the 1939 Ar¬ 
ch ix'e) which has never been ecjual- 
led. Most of the mendjers of that 
group have kept writing, in one 
form or another, as their profession. 

Still in the memory of most of us, 
however, is the second important 
group ^vhich existed only two years 
ago. Such names as Guy Davenport, 
Tom Greet, Bill Styron, Mac Hy¬ 
man, Bill Snitger, Lewds Buck, and 
many others still haunt the pages 
of this magazine, fJnfortunately, 
much of this talent was not utilized 
by the Archive and as a residt many 
students undoubtedly never knew 
that anything of note was going on. 
Outsiders who visited Dr. Black¬ 
burn’s creative writing classes were 
usually astounded at the cjuality and 
quantity of the work being done. 
Often one of these classes cvonld 
meet with the creative-writing group 
from Chapel Hill (our main rivals) 
and each time, though unofficially, 
the Duke stories outshown those 
from Carolina. 

Even more jjroof of the sincerity 
of these waiters can be found in the 
fact that four of the six authors men¬ 
tioned above are now "writing novels 
(one of them has already written 
two), and it seems very probable 
that most of them will meet with 
success. Many of us, I’m afraid, 
look back fondly and .somewhat 
nostalgically on tho,se days. 


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Just what causes these “llower- 
ings” is impo.ssihle to determine. 
Idiere .seems to be no rime or reason 
lor an above-average grouj) of writ¬ 
ers to appear suddenly on the cam¬ 
pus. Even a single year's time may 
uncover two or three who had 
shown no promise until that mo¬ 
ment. Precisely lor this reason it is 
futile to predict anything in the way 
of future creative excellence. At 
present it appears that next year will 
not he too promising. P>ut who 
knows? If Duke writers have a mag- 
a/ine they respect to contribute to, 
and if the faculty and administra¬ 
tion offer their encouragement, al¬ 
most anything could happen. 

Oidy recently has Duke been 
placing any noticeable emphasis on 
the arts. W'ith the remodeling of 
,\sbury, painting anti music are now 
coming to the fore; anti we might 
even hope that .sometlay, if the trend 
continues, it may he possible to 
major in creative writing. 

Summing Up 

College always means tlillerent 
things to different people. Fhe en¬ 
gineer, the football player, the husi- athninistration major, the S(i.\ 
politician—all have their own spe¬ 
cial interests. .\nd likewise, though 
smaller in nnmher (misunderstood 
and helittletl, Fm afraitl, by most 
other groups) , the Pul) Ro\v tle- 
votees are just as ardent and sincere 
in their ])ursuits as the rest. 

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DeCORI^M is an illusive quali¬ 
ty. It conies perhaps unconsciously 
to a group or an organization or a 
campus. It does not follow sophisti¬ 
cation or riches or possibly not even 
intelligence. We don’t know when 
or how it comes; and when it does, 
we do not notice it. We only know 
■when it is absent. 

This matter of decorum on the 
campus was brought to the fore by 
a professor in one of his classes re¬ 
cently. And he seems to have had a 
point worth making. He was dis¬ 
turbed in particular about the lack 
of decorum on this college campus, 
which as a university is now well 
over twenty years old. Some signs 
of an aura of decorum in the daily 
activity of the campus should have 
been pervading themselves through 
the atmosphere for several years 

now. But perhaps it would be bet¬ 
ter to break in here to say that de¬ 
corum does not call for a sort of in¬ 
tellectual stuffiness (the professor 
whose plaint it was conducts pos¬ 
sibly the most informal classes at 
the university), but it does call for a 
modicum of good taste. Good Taste 
is a term that has been bandied 
about too much in the society of 
men for it to have any real mean¬ 
ing now. And in reality any college 
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gence that he woiikl not have use 
lor the word anyway, because good 
taste shoukl necessarily come with- 
tnit thinking to people of higher 
mental capacity. 

Duke has been since its beginning 
rather selfconsciously worried about 
its traditions (a tradition, for those 
who want to know, is something or 
event that is rememberetl by those 
who have left because (1) they 
know it is permanent and (2) they 
are proud of it) , but perhaps we had 
better worry about the evidences of 
bad taste and let the traditions be¬ 
come traditions all by themselves. 
W^e have seen several evidences of 
bad taste in the past year. At least 
it would have been bad taste had 
this been another society, but we no 

longer blush: are we getting useil 
to it? 

Perhaps we are. Or perhaps we 
have never reached the mark where 
we ought to be ashamed, d’he utter 
juvenility of “Duke Mixture” never 
seems to bother anyone. .Some have 
expressed the belief that it is silly 
and useless, but others stoutly refuse 
to read anything unless it has a 
taint of gossip coiKerning the com¬ 
munity’s seenungly most active mem¬ 

Perha])s we are getting used to it. 
Only a few people were disturbed 
by the backbitiug concert intermis¬ 
sion speeches, which weie reminis¬ 
cent of the Shid)crts’ spec tacidar at¬ 
tack on the New \'ork ciitics who, 
lor some strange reason, panned 
their plays which were not up to par 
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VOL. 62 No. 4 

Laboratory Theatre 

This year the Duke audience saw txeo experimental 
dramas presented by the Laboratory Theatre of Duke 
Players. The experimexitations came not in the plays themselnes but in the production methods. First, there xeas 
the arena theatre, a nexv and yet ancient type of staging; and second, there xeas “the xeilling suspension of dis¬ 
belief,” txco factors xvhich are expounded in this article. Don AIoC au.lkn, connected in xHirious capacities xvith 
both of the productions, is a junior from Maplexvood, Nexv Jersey. 



T he two laboratory jD'odiic tions ol Duke 
Players this year were iu every way experimen¬ 
tal. Both Tartuffe and Julius Caesar involved 
techni(]nes and jnohlems which had never l)elore been 
encountered. The biggest difierence in concept was in 
the physical theatre itself. I'o actors used to the con¬ 
ventional stage anti auditorium in Page, the prospect 
of playing to an audience which was literally sitting 
in their laps was somewhat unnerving. On the usual 
stage there is about tweuty-five leet and a curtain 
separating the players and audience, d'his distance 
gives the playgoer the im])ression that he is watching 
a picture, framed by the proscenium arch. Plays have 
been watched in this way lor about lour hundred 
years, ever since some ax’ant-garde Italians decided 
that scenery should he as j)hotogra])hically realistic as 
]K)ssihle. While Ace may he conditioned to this type ol 
production, it is by no means ex( lusive. 'I'hc theatres 
of both Cireece and Rome were built in an amphi¬ 
theatre design, with seats rising in a great hall-circle 
about the playing area. 

There has long been a musty academic interest in 
the advantages and possibilities of the aicna type ol 
stage, hut not until cpiite recently in this country has 
any group actually tried it out in production. Margo 
Jones with her 'Ehcatre In d he Round in Dallas has 

jii'oved that audiences will consistently find favor with 
arena staging, and in many cases they think it superior 
to (onventional productions. 

d'he advantages of the arena play are best shown in 
a play such as Tartuffe. Here the setting is an ordinary 
room in a well-to-do Paris home, d'he audience, seated 
about three sides of the playing area, in an atmos- 
])hcre (pute dillerent from that of a conventional 
theatre, achieves what approaches a personal rapport 
with both the actors and the action of the play. For 
this effect, Moliere must receive .some credit because 
his play, in its simplicity and penetrating analysis of 
character, lends itself admirably to sym])athetic ap¬ 
preciation in a personal atmosphere. 

The situation in Julius Caesar is cpiite dillerent. 
Here the arena stage must serve many more uses than 
in Tartuffe. With a minimum of scene changes, the 
setting must represent a street, an orchard, a senate 
building, and a field of battle. Obviously, no |)hoto- 
graphically realistic set could be used to good ellect. 
Instead, the set nas constructed iu a series of platlorms 
and steps, using six different levels. .Striking lighting 
effects suggested changes iu time and scene. Music and 
.sound effects heightened dramatic effect and acted as 
a bridge between .scenes, rhus, the setting for fulius 
Caesar may be called a plastic design, depending on 


M.W, 1919 


ilu "It not to i)oiir;i\ a realistic scene but ic:) serve as 
an unobtrusive backt>ronncl lor the more important 
c lenient, the ac tors and the ac tion. 

It is eas\ to be blinclecl bv the llnicl simplicity ol the 
plastic' stage, and to believe it the answer to all the 
desioning problems in a prodnetion. \\diile it may be 
cpiite desirable lor man\ classic plays, and a few’ enr- 
rent ones, the fact remains that in the majority of 
cases the setting cannot be so simplified ivithont the 
pla\ losing a great deal of its effectiveness. Many 
modern .Vnierican plays realistically conceived call 
for realistic staging. .Such plays as Street Scene, Life 
With I'ntlier. and The Front Page would seem Indi- 
crons it the backgroniid did not match the action in 
atithenticitv. .\lso plays ivhich are impressionistic or 
iiave elements of phantasy in them, usually call for 
more elaborate settings than the arena stage can offer. 


L \ HIC.HL^ provocative factor which must be con¬ 
sidered in presenting any type of play is the somewdiat 
nebulotis ejuantity knoivn as “the 'willing suspension 
of disbelief.” This is a very useful index to the effec- of the play and is, actually the degree to 
which the audience is willing to accept as real the 
fiction which they are w^atching on the stage. This ac- 
cejrtance of reality does not necessarily mean precise 
realism in staging, btit rather an honest appraisal of 
a conflict situation, with consetjuent interaction and 
resolution. As drama may be called simply “men in 
action,” the primary emphasis of the author, and the 
interest of the audience is centered upon the people 
on the stage, and not upon externals, such as costumes, 
settings, and the lighting. If the dramatic situation is 
of sufficient interest, it is not alw'ays necessary to adorn 
the stage with impressive accessories. For often the use 
of starkly simple backgrounds can greatly heighten 
dramatic impact. This wdlling suspension of disbelief 
closely involves the myriad stage conventions which 
have been built up and accepted for centuries. Such a 
convention is the famous “aside.” Well known to 
Elizabethan audiences, it w’as frequently used by 
Shakespeare and his contemporaries to impart to the 
audience information wTich was not supposed to be 
heard by other persons of the play. The aside was 
aftenvards discarded, only to be revived by O’Neill in 
The Emperor Jones. Today, it is becoming more and 
more acceptable, but its use is mainly that of exj^ress- 
ing thoughts rather than communicating future ac¬ 

In staging a production for the plastic or arena 

stage, the use of symbolic representation is frecjuently 
desirable. For example, in Jnlitis Caesar the question 
arose as to the effectiveness of the presence of blood 
dtiring the assassination scene. It -w^as finally decided 
that even a suggestion of blood wmuld not be in keep¬ 
ing with the rest of the play, as reality in one particu¬ 
lar w'ould lead the audience to expect reality in other 
aspects as w'ell, wdiich w^as not possible under the 
simplified staging arrangements. The use of platforms 
simplified staging arrangements. The highest level was 
effectively used as Caesar’s throne platform, a pulpit 
for Mark Antony, and a high hill during the battle 
scenes. The audience did not discredit this device since 
it fitted wdth the other elements in the production. 

While it is easy to use such devices in rooms such as 
the ones in which Tartiifje and Julius Caesar were 
given, it is quite another matter when planning a 
show' for Page Auditorium. Flere, the audience is more 
prepared with preconceptions about the setting. They 
have long been conditioned to the usual set con¬ 
structed with ordinary flats or draperies. If confronted 
Avith the just now mentioned multiple use of plat¬ 
forms, they might well feel as though something was 
being foisted upon them. Here, the tendency would 
be just the reverse from an arena production. The 
temptation is for more complexity and elaborateness, 
rather than a sustained simplicity. Indeed, if Caesar 
w'ere given in Page, an entirely different setting would 
have to be designed, as the playing area is fully three 
times that of the room where Caesar w'as presented. 


AHERE IS, I believe, a type of theatre which would 
combine the best features of both the conventional 
and the arena 'stage. The proscenium arch would be 
kept, but the stage would be extended in a half circle 
extending out into the audience. The seats would 
then be arranged about the stage in rising arcs, 
rather than in straight lines. The acting would be 
much more flexible, enabling the actors to use the 
standard acting area, or to move out closer to the 
audience seated about them, as in the arena theatre. 
Such a combination would permit the effective staging 
of almost any type of play, with the added advantage ' 
of bringing the audience closer to the action. This i 
theatre would also be much smaller than the usual 
theatre, seating only about three hundred and fifty ' 
people. Page Auditorium, while satisfactory for movies j 
or orchestra events, is eminently unsatisfactory for 
plays. Its size (larger than most New York theatres) 
and acoustical defects are formidable obstacles to an | 




actor wlio has almost to sitout his lines to he heard 
in the back of the auditorium. The psychological 
effect of playing to a house which is less than a third 
full is bad for both actor and audience, and is an¬ 
other reason for the smaller, more intimate theatre. 

The two laboratory productions this year have 
validated several interesting ideas. First, that there is 

a real interest among members of the university com¬ 
munity in “classic” plays, usually thought to be of 
limited appeal. Second, that audiences are willing to 
accept that sim])lified staging technicjnes used. Finally, 
that many who saw Tartuffe and Julirts Caesar said 
that they actually preferred to watch plays in that 
way, rather than in a customary auditorium. 


by Roberf W. Wagner 

W HEN summer sunlight drearily cast 
Its long cool shadows on my past 
I’d turn mv eyes toward the hills 
.\nd see the trees on sunny rills 
Cio dancing with fantastic grace 
Between the clouds of Belgium lace, 
d'hen further down where waters frown 
I’d see mountains bobbing up and down 
'Fhe cold gray slate that came to life 
W’ith dashing spear and flashing knife— 

'Fhe hills alive with primitive men. 

.\ jjagan race with copper skin 
.\long each stony crag would race, 

'Fhen vanish at the mountain face. 

Fheir battle call on yonder wall 
W’oidd echo like a waterfall. 

In search of them I would (juickly go 
Fo tell them how I liked their show 
But all I’d find of Indian lore 
Would be footprints on a rocky floor. 





V K. rORlA is annc)viiii> lici iricnds again. Alter 
her recent sliocking experience they want to 
feel sorr\ lor her and surround her with the 
hns\ little signs ol their allection. Hnt she seems un¬ 
aware ol a need lor their ministrations and continnes, 
as a matter ol fact, doing the things she has always 
done, and in the same way. The routine ol her lite 
is unchanged; sorrow rests lightly on her brow. 

•Sometimes her friends are tempted to give her up 
as a bad job and just let people laugh and poke fun 
at her. Obviously she doesn’t realize how much time 
thev must spend explaining and excusing her actions 
to their curious neighbors. 

For one thing, she dresses in such a peculiar I'ashion. 
Summer and winter alike she wears a man’s heavy 
jacket, inside which her tall thin body seems to move 
about like a turtle in its shell. Too long in the sleeves 
and too tvide across her shoulders, she gathers in the 
slack by means ol a belt drawn snugly about her spare 
hijrs. W’ith the coat her unfailing costume is a long 
woolen skirt, short socks, and tennis shoes. Every wisp 
of hair is tucked out of sight by means of a wide rib¬ 
bon wound about her head and tied with a bow on 

It might at least be expected that she woidd give 
ujj those ridicidous antics on the beach every morn¬ 
ing. .Anyone who wants to look can see her loping 
along as though she hadn’t a care in the world, in¬ 
haling great drafts of salt air, her spindling arms and 
legs going round and round like windmills as she fol¬ 
lows the curve of the waves along the shore. She has 
been known on more than one occasion to forget 
proper behavior .so far as to fling herself forward over 
the sand in a .series of wildly abandoned cartwheels— 
nnseendy jjrocedure for a woman approaching her 
middle years, and certainly not indicative of inner 

.\nd then, there are the cats, the battered strays 
that prowl and wail around the back door of her tea¬ 

room. Noisy nuisances to everybody else. Victoria 
gathers them all around her, crooning and stroking 
and comforting, “Now then, how’s that for a treat!’’ 
as she dispenses scraps and saucersfid of milk. She 
knows, and admits, that their affection for her will 
last only until their battle scars have healed, when 
they will disappear as mysteriously as they have come, 
to be replaced shortly by another piteous beggar for 
her attentions. 

There’s no denying she’s a good-hearted old dear, 
and that’s why its so hard to be really angry with her. 
That, also, is the cause of all her recent trouble. 

One morning a strange man appeared at the head 
of the dusty tree-lined alley separating Victoria’s tea¬ 
room from its neighboring house. Only one or two 
people saw his fat person move jauntily down the lane, 
but they carried the news about town, not forgetting 
any of the details of his dress nor the manner of his 
meeting with Victoria. Fie wore a baggy suit of pep¬ 
per and salt tweeds and a ragged felt hat set upon his 
head at a rakish angle. His face was broad and beefy, 
the lips puckered into a whistle as he made his way 
down the alley swinging a walking stick. For all the of his attire there was an unmistakably 
cocky air about the man as he made his way to the 
spot where Victoria stood in the midst of her crowd¬ 
ing, bumping strays. He stopped to watch her, and 
when she turned, he took off his hat in a large sweep¬ 
ing gesture, one arm outstretched with the cane. The 
passersby saw words pass between the two, and then 
the man followed the woman into the house. 

The kitchen was dark and warm and seemed full 
of furniture. A big scpiare table sat in the middle of 
the room, taking up with its solid bidk most of the 
floor sj)ace. There was just room for one person to 
pass between it and the necessary kitchen equipment 
set against the walls—a great black stove and next to 
it a metal sink under a small window hung with a 
fishnet curtain. Open shelves lining the walls expo.sed 

“The Lady All Forlorn” is the first story by Eileen Taylor McClay to appear 
in the Archive. While her husband is taking graduate work here, Mrs. McClay 
is enrolled as a special student in Dr. Blackburn’s creative writing class. 




a clutter ol Ijoxes and bottles, small tins oi spices, and 
glass jars ot various sizes with labels proclaiming their 
contents—beans, rice, cornstarch. An icebox painted 
green stootl against one wall. 

"You’re English, aren’t you?” Victoria said, busying 
hersell at the stove. 

“Yes, I am! Yes! And .so are you, I can tell that. 
Well, well!” The man’s llorid lace opened in a grin, 
and his bushy brows rose in an expre,ssion ol surprised 

Victoria pointed to a high stool in a corner ol the 
room. “Do sit down. I’ll just put on the kettle here 
and have tea ready in a minute.” 

The man eased his great bulk onto the stool and 
leaned his stick against the wall. “This is awlully 
good ol you. A cup cjI tea will just hit the spot.” He 
laid his hat over his knees and glanced almut the 

“It’s (piite all right.” Victoria crossed to the icebox 
and stooped, peering in. “I’ve got a bit ol cheese. 1 
could make you a sandwich.” She closed the icebox 
door and put the cheese on the table. “I expect you’ve 
had a long walk.” 

She did not seem to want an answer to this observa¬ 
tion anti the man merely repeated, “It’s awlully good 
ol you,” continuing to appraise his surroundings. 

Thrciugh a passageway partly screened by a cre¬ 
tonne tlrape he could see another rtmm. In contrast 
to the dark kitchen it seemed light and gave an im¬ 
pression ol size and airinccss. He could .see a deep 
chair and in Iront ol it a wide low table. The arm ol 
another chair was visible on the ojjposite sitle ol the 
tal)le, then the curtain in the doorway cut oil his 
view. By shilting slightly on the stool and turning 
his head to one side his vision was expanded to in¬ 
clude most ol the room and he could see a number 
ol other tables and more ol the deep, comlortable 
chairs. .\ curtain lluttered at an open window at the 
lar end ol tlte room and the breeze reached him laint- 
ly through the doorway. 

“Here you are.” Victoria hatuled him a steaming 
cup. “I’ll put your sandwiches on the table where you 
can reach them.” 

She set down the plate in Iront ol him, then pulled 
out a chair Irom the opposite side ol the table and 
sat down with the tea she hatl poured lor henselt. For 
a little while there was silence. Victoria smiled out 
the door where a tough, grey oltl cat picked at the 
screening with his claws. “Clreedy old thing!” she 
murmured and lell silent again, still smiling to hersell. 

Presently the stranger cleared his throat and set 

dcwn his empty cup. “That’s the best cup ol tea I’ve 
had since 1 lelt home. No, no—well, all right, thank 
you, just a drop more.” He alhnved his cup tct be re¬ 
filled and then leaned back against the wall once 
more. “I have had a long walk this morning. Must be 
on my way again, tcm, as scton as ycju’ve let me know 
what 1 can do tct repay your kindness.” 

Victoria brushed the air with her liand. “Oh, rub¬ 
bish. Surely I can spare a l)ite to eat!” She smiled at 
him and her small bright eyes danced. 

“Still and all, it’s awlully good ol you.” He wiped 
his mouth with the Ixick ol his hand, then ran his 
tongue over his teeth. Once more he looked about the 
kitchen and out into the bright rcjom beycjnd. “1 
should think you’d do a tidy liusiness here, this being 
a resort town—all that sort ol thing.” 

“Oh yes, I do well enough. The tourists seem to 
take a tancy to the idea ol alternoon tea.” 

His gaze rested on her lace. “And have ycju l)een out 
here long?” 

“Oh—” Victcjria ccjntemplated the table top lor a 
moment. “Ten years or so.” 

I'he man nodded his head. “I daresay you’ve built 
up (juite a nice business in that time.” 

Victoria stood uj) and began tcj carry the cups to 
the sink. 

“W’ell, I must be getting along now,” said the man, 
“hitting the road again.” But he did not move and 
prccsently Victoria asked, “Where will you go?” 

“I dczn’t cpiite know yet.” He looked out the docji. 
“Inland, perhaps. To the orange groves.” He sighed 
heavily. “I may find work there.” 

Picking his hat oil his knees he began to turn it 
slowly round and round between his fingers. Victoria 
did not speak, “^'ou know,” there was a small, pride- 
lul yet deprecating laugh, “It’s rathei' hard on a man 
like me, this kind ol life.” He jKiused again but there 
was no comment Irom X'ictoria. “It’s not what I’m 
used to,” he finished. 

\'i(toria hung a cup on a hook. “Is that scj?” she 
.said, without turning. 

“I should say not,” he went on cpiickly. “Why — ” 
he clenched his big fist, “whenever I think ol it, 1 —■ 
but it’s a nastv I won’t Inirden you with it.” 
He glanced at \'ictoria out ol the corners ol liis eyes. 
•She noikled, the bow ol her ribbon (|uivering. “.\11 
right,” she said, and turned back to the sink. 

He began to ]mll at the lolte ol his ear, slowly, lean¬ 
ing lorward, resting his thin on one hand. “1 always 
lelt a man should keep his troubles to himsell, not go 

.MAY, 1949 



spriaiiinv; tluMU arouiul, vou know, bothering other 
petiple. " 

■'1 suppose tliat’s a good iilea." nunnnred \'ictoria. 
(.etting a large howl down Iroin a shell she hegtin to 
shilt and measure ingretlienis into it. AVith his eyes on 
hei haiuls as she worked the man coughed again. 
■'1 guess there are a lot ot people who'd give ns a 
snr|)rise it we onlv knew their stories." 
riiat's true enough." 

Me looked thonghtlul lor a lew moments, his brow 
Inrroweti. I'lien riiclnlly, yet in a tone lull ol sad res¬ 
ignation. he said, "You’d think a man could trust 
his own kin. wouldn't you? His own brother?” He 
shook his head slowly Irom side to side, glancing again 
at X'ictoria as though to measure the effect of his 

The shadow of a smile touched the corners of her 
mouth and was gone again before he could be sure of 
it. ■ ■^’es, that certainly doesn’t seem too much to 

" I hat’s just what / thought!” he rvent on and slap¬ 
ped his thigh eagerly. “And look at the state it s 
brought me to! Not a roof over my head nor a penny 
in my pockets. Defrauded, 1 w'as, defrauded of it all! 
He paused dramatically. 

“How dreadful.” Victoria made a sympathetic cluck¬ 
ing noise and began to stir the mixture in the bowl 

“^’es,” he continued with a flourish of the hand, 
"everything gone—money, friends—” he began to 
speak more slowly, casually yet with a deliberate ent- 
phasis,”—the Manor.—Even,” he said with a quick 
snap of the fingers and a shrug of the shoulders, “the 

\hctoria gave two or three last swipes at her batter 
and then poured the mixture into a baking pan. Care- 
lully she placed it in the oven and then stood up, her 
(heek streaked with white where she had brushed a 
lew stray hairs out of the way with a floury hand. 
'D'ou do .seem to have had a run of bad luck,” she 

“Yes,” he agreed morosely. 

“How did it all come about?” 

deeper flush spread over his red face, and he put 
his hand to his eyes. “It’s much too long a story to 
tell. You’d scarcely believe it.” 

■Again a .smile brushed her face and was gone. “And 
is there nothing you can do about it, no way to get 
back all these things you’ve lost?” 

“.\o! \’o!” he waved the idea away brusquely. 

“There’s nothing to be done. They all lied and stood 
against me. There’s nothing I can do about it.” And 
then, after a few moments of glowering silence the 
frown faded from his face and another expression took 
its place. His tone changed to one of pathetic weari¬ 
ness. “1 don’t know. Perhaps you’re right. The trouble 
is 1 have to be on the go all the time. Working for a 
fetv dollars here and there, moving about all the time 
—it doesn’t give me time to think things out.” He 
shook his head an a great sigh escaped him. “If 1 
could only find a quiet spot to settle down in for a 
little while 1 might be able to work it out. Just a little 
while in a cpiiet spot might make all the difference. 
But it’s no use,” again he sighed. “I’ve got to be push¬ 
ing along again.” 

The room was cjuiet for the space of several minutes. 
The stranger sat hunched forward on his stool in an 
attitude of imminent leavetaking. Victoria leaned 
against the table, smiling out the door again, tapping 
a tune on the oilcloth cover with a bit of broom straw. 
“It seems to me,” she said, “that a little peace and 
cpiiet shouldn’t be too much for a man to ask.” 

She turned to the stove again and opening the oven 
door began poking inside with the straw. Without 
turning around she said, “I’ve got a tea cake here just 
about done. You might as well stay and have a piece 
once it’s out of the oven.” She added, “It may remind 
you of home.” 

“Oh, no, I musn’t impose on you any longer. Well, 
I suppose a little more time won’t really make any 
difference. It smells wonderful! This is awfully good 
of you, you know, awfully good!” 

Two DAYS later it was apparent that the strange 
man had not left but instead appeared to be sleeping 
at nights on a cot in the woodshed at the back of the 
tearoom. No one really believed for an instant that 
the rules of propriety were being violated; Victoria’s 
sparse, maidenly person did not readily lend itself to 
lurid conjecture. But the situation made occasion for 
much ribald comment in the town, and the stranger 
immediately became known as “the old girl’s boy 
friend.” Alarmed, yet curious, when the gossip reach¬ 
ed their ears, Victoria’s friends found jrrompt occasion 
to call at the tearoom. 

With bright greetings they stepped into the kitchen, 
sniffing the masculine odor of a cigar lying richly on 
the air. Casually they chattered, but their eyes darted 
about the kitchen and their bodies were poised, alert 




oil the edge of their chairs listening to the heavy loot- 
steps and the sound of logs being laid in the front 
room fireplace. Eagerly all eyes were riveted on the 
door as the sounds in the other room stopped and 
the man came striding into their midst. As though 
caught unaware by the presence of visitors he made 
a great to do, with many a charming apology for his 

“Richard is helping me with the heavy work,” Vic¬ 
toria said and blandly received their disapproving 

He was always there after that, jumping nji to (ling 
the door wide and greet them as old 
friends, “Well, well! Come along in!” 

They were cool to his overtures, but 
he seemed not to notice. The day he 
told them the story of his wanderings 
they gathered out of sight of the tea¬ 
room afterwards to discuss the matter 
in shocked tones. 

You can see what a trial Victoria 
was to them at the time. Having a 
strange man about the premises was 
bad enough, but to allow him to spin 
tales like that —Sir Richard, indeed! 

And not a word from Victoria; noth¬ 
ing but a smile! 

It was ominously apparent to them 
that Victoria was being taken in, 
hoodwinked, and that they must take 
steps to save her from possible disaster 
and certain disgrace. They deter¬ 
mined to tri]j Richard by cunning 
(juestions, .so that he would fall into 
his own trap. 

Hut Richard was nimble and not 
easily caught. I'here was hardly a 
phrase they could put a finger on and 
say, “Heie now, wait a minute. Wdiat 
about this?” 

Questioned, he was glib with names 
and places; yet the one thing which 
struck them was that all his talk 
of great homes centered upon the handsomeness ol 
the servants’ (juarters or the meticulous housekeeping 
required of the stablehands. “You ought to see the 
quarters!” he would say. “Why—” his hand wouhl 
go out tentatively as though groping for a suitable 
exj)ression, then sweej) the air cjnickly. “You've never 
seen anything the like.” He would shake his head as 
though he could .scarcely credit remembrame. 

Came a rlay when the women discovered that Vic¬ 
toria had bought a car. They were beside themselves 
with exasperation. The very idea! To buy a car so 
that scoundrel conld take her driving about in the 
evenings. Not that she couldn’t afford it—Victoria 
must have a |)retty penny set aside from her business; 
she never spent anything on herself—but to spend 
good money on a car, even an old (me, that she would 
have to de]Kmd upon somebody else to drive lor her 
seemed to confirm their worst forebodings. 

In the evening VicKjria and Richard drove out to 
take the air. Richard was at the wheel, proudly weav¬ 
ing in and out of the trallic. “Now 
then,” he kept re]jeating, “this is 
something like! This beats walking 
any day in the week! .Vren’t yon glad 
now that you bought it?” 

\’ictoria was watching the sunset. 
“Yes, it’s very plea.sant. Of course, I 
couldn’t give up my walks, you know. 

1 wouldn’t want to get used to riding 
about all the time.” 

He seemed not to be listening to 
her. “It’s high time yon had a car. 
You know. I’ve been thinking—” he 
paused and cleared his thioat, “you 
work too hard at that confounded tea¬ 
room. Y<ju ought to take a rest, c lose 
up f(jr awhile maybe.” 

He drove along frowning, then as 
if an idea had snddeidy struck him he 
snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it! Why 
don’t yon sell out, give up the whole 
thing! \’ou (onid get a good price lot 
the place and retire, rest a bit.” His 
voice was suddenly htnnble. “I could 
stay and help yon, take care of the 
heavy work as 1 am now. ^’ou do look 
tired. My dear, you really ought to 
sell . . .” 

“1 don't think I'm ready to retire 
yet. 1 think I should miss the place 
^ if 1 did.” 

“Oh, but you don't look at all well! I’m sure it’s 
more ol a strain than yon realize.” 

“I feel very well.” Her voice was tool and dry. “.\nd 
I feel (juite sure that I shall be needing the iiuome 
Irom my tearoom, Ridiard.” 

He glaiued at hei (jiiickly, but she had turned her 
face again to the magnificent display in the west. .V 
petiiliar look dept over his face, something of pu/zle- 

MA^, 1949 



nifiu mixed with respect. I'hev (.Irove on in silence 
\rhile lie earelnllv looketl (or a place to turn aroniul 
aiul then headed the car hack home. 

I hW MORNINCkS later Richard ami the cat- 
had tlisappeareil. \'ictoria’s I'rientls were outraged but 
nevertheless \iiulicated in their judgment ol him. It 
ivas no more than they hail expectetl, and they rnshetl 
to Iter side to comlort the stricken rvoman. I’heir an- 
novance knew no bounds when it teas discovered that 
she remainetl nnchastened ami greeted them as though 
nothing extraordinary at all had happened. 

But still they are her dear, good friends, and still 
they kwe her, though rvith gritted teetli. They come 
to sit ivith her by the hour, offering the consolation 
of their presence, but with great delicacy talking of 
every sidiject except the one which occupies their 
minds. Sometimes they feel rewarded when they come 
upon her feeding her cats and notice that she pauses 
occasionally, to pucker her thin, gentle lips into a 
smile, shade her eyes and gaze down the empty tree- 
lined lane. These are the moments when thy can turn 
to on another and murmur in low exultant tones of 
pity, “Poor Victoria! She can’t forget.” 


by Cornwall Image 

With horse.s and cows and garden tools 
Emerson was inept. 

— Bliss Perry 

Ralph Waldo Emerson, as everyone knows, 

Lived in Concord and wrote “Self-Reliance,” 
Attended Harvard and wore the proper clothes, 
.\nd to the ritual of Boston gave compliance. 

But his perfect health he had kept 
(This he insistetl) 

By walking forty miles 
Every day. 

With cows he was inept. 

But he persisted 

And milked them wreathed in smiles 
Ever so gay. 



Those luho do not know William Klknz personally probably know of him through 
fhg Jiearsay broadcast by the students who have taken his courses in music theory 
and appreciation. As a’cellist, a composer, and an instructor he is distinguished; and those who have heard 
him will agree that abo-oe all he is an artist. Dan Patterson, Music Editor of the Arcliive, is a senior from 



M ost DLIKE students know William Klenz 
only as a man with a crewcut often seen on 
East Campus lugging about a ’cello. Actually 
he is situated in .\sbury where he teaches music theory 
and appreciation of modern music to an idolatrous 
following, ])ractices hard on his ’cello, and composes. 

Until he was twelve, Mr. Klenz wanted to be a paint¬ 
er, and had never studied music at all. Then his father 
hought him a ’cello for Christmas, “f didn’t even know 
what the ’cello was,” he .says, “but it ‘took.’ ” One year 
later he won a schcjlarship to the San Erancisco Con¬ 
servatory of Afusic. He had classes 
there under the composer Ernest 
Bloch, but says that he was too 
young to realize Bloch’s impor¬ 
tance. At eighteen, as a residt of 
an audition by Jo.sef Holfman, he 
was granted a scholarship to Cur¬ 
tis Institute of Music, from which 
he obtained his Bachelor of Music 
degree. Erom there he went as a 
!>rathiate assistant to the Univer¬ 
sity of North Carolina, where in 
addition to teaching, he got a 
Bachelor of Arts degree in two 
years’ time. Before he could com¬ 
plete his work for a Masters, he 
was drafted into the Army. 

.Mr. Klenz spent most of the 
war in England and Erance doing 
work for which he received the 
rating of Cry]Jtanalist and Lin¬ 
guist, but managed to continue music on the side. He 
gave a number of concerts—during one in England 
twelve buzz-bombs passed over—and studied ’cello 
with Pierre Eouruier while in Paris. One ol his com¬ 
positions, a Te Deum lor chorus and brasses, ■was 
I broadcast by tbe B.B.C. Mr. Klenz tells that the pro- 
Igiam cvas recorded oH the ait by the Nazis and re- 

bioadcast by them three times cjn propaganda pro¬ 
grams beamed to American soldiers. “I bis,” he says, 
“is an example of some of the odd jTsychological con- 
cejjtions the Germans had. I'he Te Deum was an 
austere piece which ccndd have had no appeal what¬ 
soever for the G.l.’s” After the liberaticjn of Erance, 
the Te Deum was broadcast again by the Radio Dif¬ 
fusion Eran^aise. In connection with jneparalion of 
the wcjrk fczr the performance, Mr. Klenz met Erancis 
Poulenc, Cfeorges .Vuric, and crther Erench composers 
and was invited to join a social chdj of the composers 
in Palis. Initiation was held with 
customary horseplay iu the red- 
plush office of the director of the 
P a r i s Gonservatory under the 
severe gaze of steel-engravings of 
■Saint-Saens and a bust of D’Indy. 

Mr. Klenz says that there was 
an enormous amount of music¬ 
making in Paris while he was 
there after the Liberation. Em¬ 
phasis seemed to be on chamber 
works, but one coidci hear music 
of all kinds. Lhe churches of 
Paris, lor example, were perform¬ 
ing much Medieval and Renais¬ 
sance ecclesiastical music. He says 
that although cluriug the winter 
it was so cold that players had to 
wear mittens with the lips cut oil 
lor their lingers and audiences 
h;ul to go bundled in everything 
that they had, the people could not have been driven 
away from the concei ts. 

.After his discharge Irom the .Army, Mr. Klenz 
studied theory and composition lor a semestei at A'ale 
undei the composer Paid Hindemith. He describes the 
classes as being conducted according to the .Socratic 
method, with music treated not as an academic subject. 

MAY, 1949 



but a> a li\ing cral't. Mr. Kleiu's own method of 
teaching is in some respects similar to this. He prefers 
classes small enough for informal discussion, and 
Stresses the functional aspect of his material. The 
premise underlving his theory teaching is that of the 
ps\chctlogical and physiological basis of music, so that 
he tries to introduce his students not only to the avoid¬ 
ance of traditional academic horrors (parallel fifths 
and octa\es in four-part writing, and the like) but 
also to the problems of form and the co-ordination of 
expensi\e materials. 

H IS COL’RSE in appreciation of modern music is 
one of the best the University offers. Unlike most 
concentration courses, it tends to expand rather than 
contract the student’s outlook, for Mr. Klenz believes 
that art cannot be fully understood apart from the 
society which produces it. His reading assignments 
therefore include such subjects as economics and so- 
ciologA’ as well as music, and individual research is 
carried on by students in the relationships between 

contemporary music and the political situation, eco¬ 
nomic institutions, and the other arts. 

The great cleavage today between the public and 
the composer, Mr. Klenz thinks to be partly due to the 
fact that there is too little domestic music-making and 
too much reliance on virtuoso performers. He himself 
finds his greatest pleasure in private performances in 
string cpiartets. Similarly, in composing he finds more 
stinudation for the imagination in writing works for 
performance by local organizations, even with the re¬ 
strictions they impose, than in writing for an abstract, 
ideal group. One of his works, the first movement 
from a “Sonata for Six Brass Instruments,” was eiven 
here earlier in the year. Another work, “Corpus 
Christi,” was performed by the Duke String Orchestra 
and the Madrigal Singers last week. 

Like the students, Mr. Klenz is anticipating the sum¬ 
mer vacation, which will find him sitting on the Wil¬ 
mington, N. C., pier, waiting for a boat to take him 
to Italy and the completion of research work that he 
began there last summer. 


by Robert W. Wagner 

M ajestic, tail, alive 

Breathing sunlight. 

The evidence of creation— 

Pouring forth new spring leaves. 

Fulfilling a destiny— 

And offering shade for the study of Aristotle, 
Marginal utility, and the elements. 





O LD DOMINICK stood in the dark mouth of 
the lime plant and watched tlie car as it turn¬ 
ed down the gravel drive and rolled around 
the bend toward him. The doorway was below the 
ground, and as the car headed down the incline, its 
headlight beam caught him fidl in the lace. I'he dusty 
old man gaped, his watery eyes frightened and his 
almost toothless jaw' working in a cpiiver of anticipa¬ 
tion. I'here were no electric lights at the plant, and 
no one ever came out to it after dark. Dominick stood 
jrerfectly still as the car jjulled up beside him and 
stopped. There were two men in the front seat. 
“Hello, Nick. It’s me.” 

Dominick grabbed off his cap, and his wrinkled, 
weathered face peered through the dusk. Bobbing 
his head up and down in a gesture of recognition, he 
mumbled slowly in thick, broken English, “Meester 
Ru-adie! Wata you here for so late, ah? You scare me.” 

As John Rudy stepped out of the car he squinted 
hastily around into the darkness. His face wore a 
worried expression, and he turned back to Dominick 

“Nick, listen to tins carefully now. I’m looking for 
my children— Ixnnhiuos, Nick. Have you seen two 
children, a hoy and a girl?” He motionetl with his 
hand. “The boy is bigger— bigger. Did you see them 
any time tonight?” 

Understanding with dilficidty, Dominick stuttered, 
“No)i, noil, no hanibinos, nobody. Everyteeng es 
emjjty like always.” He waved his arm around at the 
huge cavity behind him. Erom somewhere in the back, 
ground came the steady tlrijj of water trickling down 
a lime-crusted wall. The moonlight filtered down 
into the open jilant through the trestle above the 
kilns, casting the motionless shadows of deserted 
dumping cars over dusty white wheelbarrows and bins. 
1 he other occupant of the car leaned over the driver’s 
seat and sjroke to Mr. Rudy. 

“John, why do you think they’d be here ol all 

“I don’t know, Carl. I’m getting desjrerate, I guess. 
It’s just that we’ve looked everywhere else, and I hap¬ 
pened to remember that they’ve always been so wrap¬ 
ped up in this place of mine. I don’t know. 1 guess it 
was a silly idea. 

“But could they have gotten out here by them¬ 

“I think so; I tlon’t know. Marge has brought them 
a lot (d times when she’s walked over to see me in the 
alternoon. It’s really not very far from the house. 1 
thought maybe they came over after supjK'r before it 
got dark and got lost. But I guess not. Now what shall 
we do? 1 don’t know what to do. Where can we go 

“Well, come on. The police might have found 
something by now. Maybe we’d better go back to 

John Rudy murmured something and got into the 
car. He felt in the glove compartment for a piece of 
inqjer and scribbled a number. 



“Ni(k, if you see the children, call this number . .” 
He motioned again. “Call this number from the tele¬ 
phone in the office upstairs.” 

Dominick nodded and took the paper. 

“Understand? CapiteY’ 

“Si.” His shaggy head nodded again. 

TmIE (;.\R pulled away leaving a cloud of line 
white dust to .settle silently. Dominick stood motion¬ 
less for a long time while his mind recalled .Mr. Rudy’s 
words and put them in order. .\t last he understood 
it all. His boss was in trouble. He had lost his two 
children because they had gone out to play and had 
not come back. Dominick stared blankly at the ]>lace 
where the car had disajjpeared. 

“ Eina,” the old man thought wearily, “ I'ina, Ixiin- 
bina mid.” 

This story, xehich marks Norma Mari in’s first appearance in the Ar¬ 
chive, mas written for Dr. Blackburn's creatine writing class last semes¬ 
ter. From I'nion, \ew Jersey, she is a .sophomore majoring in Fnglish. 




With a rusli lie reiallcHl the icrror til ihai night 
Ni-aiN agi> in his hoinelaiul ivlicn his goldcnliaircd 
l)ah\ ilaughicr luul not ciiinc in at ihisk Iroin playing 
in the street, lie reineinhered the tightness he had 
lelt in his ehest as he hatl gone ont to look lot her. 
He hatl toinul her there in the street not lar Iroin 
home. .\ passing carriage hatl crnshetl her thin hotly. 
Dominitk hatl tried as he earrietl her home. He had 
tried to think that at least she tvoultl never go hungry 
an\ more, and have to wear the same rotigh dress until 
it fell in rags, anti hreathe the sour air of that musty 
attic. Hilt he hatl cried. 

.Slon lv a profonnd ihonght came to Dominick’s old 
head as he stood in the niitlst of the dust and dark¬ 
ness. .Mr. Rndy hatl lost tu<<) children. Maybe he 
wonltl linil them all right, and maybe he woidd not. 
But a surprising fact teas clear. Mr. Rndy teas not a 
poor man. He otened the Rndy Quicklime Works, a 
new car. and a big nhite country house. His children 
alwavs ate well and wore pretty clothes, and his tvife 
hatl not tlied of old age anti overwork when she teas 
ihirtv-six. Dominick had listened to the stories the tlay 
workers at the plant told, and he knetv that his boss 
was not a poor man. Yet Mr. Rndy was afraid just as 
he hatl been afraid. The same trouble had touched 
both of them. The old man turned the new idea over 
and over in his mind. He had never thought of it be¬ 

The white clotul had settled now, and Dominick 
wearily turned and followed the thin beam of his 
battered llashlight back to the kilns. His thoughts of 
Tina had brought back all the memories of the old 
country that had been long tucked away and for¬ 
gotten. .Memories of the poverty and hunger he hatl 
escapetl by coming to America, for here there tvas 
always money, even in bad times, and now that the 
workers hatl fonned a union there would be even 
more money. The poverty and hunger were gone. 
Then other scenes came crowding to his thoughts. 
Darning anti singing to a gay accordion, talking on 
the street with friends, and gathering on Saturday 
night for comradeship, story telling, anti good pipes 
ol strong, cheap tobacco. Now these were all gone, too. 

Oltl Dominick shuffled along through the inch of 
lime dust on the floor, pa.ssing .several burned-out 
kilns. 'I'heir bright, warm fires were dead because the 
strike had startetl last week. The quiet of the jjlace 
made it more desolate than ever. Climbing the crum¬ 
bling stone steps to the ledge, he reachetl the only two 
kilns whidi reniainetl burning. When he openetl the 
fire doors, the intense glowing red and orange of the 

lire cast strange .shadotvs in the gloom. Above the kiln 
was the stark black shallow of the trestle and the 
dumping cars tvaiting to send their limestone con¬ 
tents do-wn the chutes to the roasters in the mornino. 


d'he air was chilling, and Dominick shivered a little 
as he reachetl for his shovel and began to feed coal 
into the mouths of the two furnaces. As tiny blue 
llames licked up from the glowing coals around the 
Iresh lumps, he lapsed into a nostalgic tlream. 

T WAS TWO hours later on his tour through the 
plant that Dominick found the two children. As he 
was passing one of the cold furnaces, a trace of gold 
in a shadotv on the ground caught his eye. Bending- 
closer to discover what it was, he found a little girl 
with golden hair asleep on the hard floor. Trembling 
with the excitement of such a miracle, Dominick 
reached a fumbling hand toward the tangled curls. 
Then his dim eyes saw the boy, and he stopped. The 
child was sitting against the base of the kiln with his 
head leaning back against the hard brick. He was 
asleep, too, though a troubled expression was fixed 
on his face as if he were having bad tlreams. The girl 
stirred in her sleep, and Dominick saw tear marks 
streaked in the dust on her cheeks. Withdrawing his 
hand, he remembered something. Slowly Dominick 
reached into his pocket and his fingers closed on the 
slip of paper. Just then the girl’s tousled head moved. 
Her eyes flew open wide as she scrambled up to grasp 
her brother around the neck. He started, and seeing 
the wrinkled old face leaning over him, he gasped 
and huddled closer to the furnace. Startled and hurt 
by the children’s fear, Dominick stepped quickly 
away from them and anxiously pressed his fingers to 
his lips. 

“Non, non. I’ma no gonna hurt you. Shh, shh.” 

At the sound of his voice the little girl quieted. She 
stole a look at him, and burying her heatl against the 
shoulder again, she renewed her cries. The hoy tried 
to comfort her even though his own lips trembled 

“Go away.” He tried to sound brave. 

“Shh ... 1 donla hurt you.” 

The boy grew a little bolder. “W'ho are you?” he 

“Me? I’ma watch here at night. Nobody elsa here. 
You not-a gonna be scared.” At the unusual sound of 
his broken words the golden-headed girl looked up 
curiously. Encouraged, the oltl man continued to re- 




assure the cliilclren with lalteriiig phrases that he hatl 
not used ior many years. 

.\t last the iaseinated girl asked shyly, “Wdiat’s your 


“My name is .Susan and he’s my brother johnny.” 

“,\re you reallv a night watchman, Dominick?” 
|ohnny’s eves were wide with interest now. 

“Si, yas, and I’ma keepa the fires hurneeng.” 

“Daddy told us all about night watchmen once, 
reniendjer, Johnny?” 

Dominick again remembered Mr. Rudy and the slip 
of paper rvith the telephone nund)er on it. His mind 
rebelled against the thought. The excitement of talk¬ 
ing to children again had left a glow which rapidly 
faded. He had never consciously realized helore how 
lonely he was. There could be no harm in waiting a 
while before going to the |jhone upstairs. He might 
get in trouble and lose his job, but there would always 
he money somewhere else. After thinking a moment 
longer the old man turnetl to the children and noticed 
that Susan was shivering slightly. 

“It’sa no good here,” Dominick muttered. “I gotta 
fire.” He motioned for them to follow. 

Carrie Chamberlain 

I'he children stood up, and Dominick watched 
Sirsan as she felt in the shadows for a moment. 

“Here he is. .My clog, Freddie.” She thrust out a bed¬ 
raggled, lc)])-earecl animal of stidfed gingham with but¬ 
ton eyes. “I almost forgot him and that would be 
'awful ’cause he’s cold, too.” 

Feeling like a child with a new plaything, Domi¬ 
nick led the way alcjiig the ledge. I'heir feet made no 
noise on the carpet of thick white dust. Stopping at 
last between the two glcjwing furnaces, he spread a 
ragged coat for the two to sit on. Fhen he looked 
abcnit for something to amuse them with. .\t last he 
had an idea. Putting a little water from a near-by 
wash hose into a dented bucket, he set it in front of 
them and went to the month of the kiln where the 
roasted lime lay in a slide cooling in huge pieces. 
Selecting a white chunk from the pile, he set it in 
the bucket and .sc|uatted beside the children, urging 
them to watch. 

together the three heads bent over the pail. Inside, 
the white rock began to smoke a little, then to crum- 
hle and settle into the water, which steamed and bub¬ 
bled. The mass in the battered bucket seethed and 
writhed while warmth from it so that the three 
could feel it with their hands. The mystery of the 
thing seetned to bring them closer to each other as 
they watched, Dominick with knowing experience, 
Susan and Johnny with wonderment. ,\s the children 
looked up at him he saw a new respect in their eyes, 
and their admiring sounds made him happy and coti- 
ficlent. Fie began to talk to them and tell them stories. 
Fhe boy and girl s;it ;it his feet and listened raptly to 
his strange accent and halting phrases. Though they 
didn’t understand matiy of his words, their eyes never 
left their new friend’s face. Fhey asked him cpiestions, 
and he told them stories of his attic home in Italy, ol 
the music an wc^nclerful sights in a far-olf country, and 
of the ship that had cairied him ticross the ocetm. Fhe 
waiinth of the kihis and the sound ol Dominick’s 
voice soon had their ellecl on the sleepy-eyed children. 
.\s he was about to tell them the ine\'itable stoiy ol his 
own baby gil l, he saw the golden head choop. 

Inside him a feeling ol utieasiness Intel been grow¬ 
ing. Now ejuite suddenly the lace of the evorried lathei 
he had seen earlier came back to him. He stopped 
talking, and, reaching out, he touched the little girl’s 
silken curls very gently. Fhen he felt a wave ol shame, 
and his stonnich grew cold. Dominick stood u|) epnek- 
Iv atul rettc hed again lor the sc rap of papei. 

y\..S FHF. (;,\R swung around the curve and clown 
the iticline to the entnince, Dominick stood between 
the two slee])y children who were clitiging to him atul 
watched it with watery, exprccssionless eyes. .Mtnost 
before the car stopped, the door opened and a woman 
stejiped out hurriclly and rtni toward them. .Susan and 

MW, 1919 



lohmn lictachod thcinschcs Iroin the old man and 
i'laN[)cd liicir mother. 'I'heir childish babble rose above 
the woman's sobs as they both tried to relate their 
atheninre at once. |ohn Rncly had gotten ont of the 
ear. too. He stopped to kiss the little heads and then 
strode toward Dciminiek, tvho stood cjnietly looking 

■■ Thanks. Xiek." Mr. Rncly’s voiee was saying as he 
pressed a bill into the hard, callonsetl hand. “Thanks.” 

Now the children tvere in the back seat, and the 
ear had started np. As Dominick watched, Susan 

leaned from the window holding out her arms to him. 

"Dom’nik, we’ll come back to see you again. 1 
promise.” Then disappearing inside the car, she re¬ 
turned, holding the limp gingham dog wdth the but¬ 
ton eyes. “Here, Dom’nik, you keep him,” she said, 
dropping the toy into his hands. As he caught it, the 
bill slipped from his fingers, but he did not notice. 

The car pulled away and was out of sight in a 
minute. Dominick started very slowly back to the 
kilns, carrying the toy with great care. Behind him 
in the dark the dnst tvas settling noiselessly. 



Sociologists, psychologists, theologians, and a few plain 
citizens have been concerned for some time about the utter 
abandon with which sex is being flouted before the American public ns a sort of perverted means for promoting 
business for several insalubrious enterprizes sometimes called “cultural.” In this manner, sex has deserted its 
normal habitat in order to become the nation’s greatest huckster. Robfrt Rich, an English major, is from 
IVashington, I). C. Next fall he will enter graduate school at Duke to work on his Master’s. 

Sex In Our Time 



M aybe the Victorians had something. I’he 
monster which their age sought to keep taboo, 
and for a long time succeeded in doing so, is 
now not only out from behind the woodpile, but also 
stalking unbridled in our midst. Ever since the omis¬ 
sion of pantaloons from women’s bathing attire some 
thirty odd years ago, sex has become an increasingly 
dominant element in American life. That is not to .say 
that the change in beach wear about 1915 started a 
chain reaction which, after a period of years, has snow¬ 
balled sex into the all-encompassing proportions it 
now' assumes. I'he cjiiestion of just what it was, aside 
from the obvious effects of Freudianism, that started 
the whole business w'ill be a rather interesting topic to 
the historian of the future whose task it will be to 
make a cidtural post-mortem of our age. Regardless 
of the cause, however, it is not altogether unlikely that 
the Petty Girl will serve as the hallmark of our society 
in the eyes of the future. 

When the cidtural consequences of our extreme .sex- 
con.sciousness are disregarded, the picture might be 
little more than ludicrous to the unprejudiced ob¬ 
server. But no such ideal personality exists to point 
out the comedy of our situation, if it is such, and .so 
we remain unaware of how’ ridicidous it is. Consider 
the extent to which the Twentieth Century mind has 
elevated the female form and the worshipful attitude 
that has been inspired by it. It is manifested in every 
conceivable medium of expression. .Since our economic 
system in the Ihiited States is supposedly based upon 
free enterprise, there is probably no better index of 
the popular mind than advertising. In order to sell 
his product successfully, the manufacturer must appeal 
to the most obvious sympathies of the public. It is 
apparently a self-evident principle in the psychology 
of advertising that by far the most essential sympathy 
of the public is sexual. The remarkable versatility of 
commercial artists fdls magazines with an endless array 

of women in every conceivable post to attract the at¬ 
tention of the reader. The “bust-bucket and liosom- 
bolster business” so audaciously advertised by .Springs 
Mills in leading magazines has undoubtedly become 
more lucrative since those magazines have agreed to 
publish Mr. Springs’ original contention that he coidd 
make anything on the page, d'he typical advertisement 
of our day, though it is not so boki as the Springs 
motif, is almost invariably accompanied by an assort¬ 
ment of supposedly attractive girls in the most alluring 
costumes that cen.sorship will permit. And it makes 
little difference whether the product to be sold is cot¬ 
ton fabric or an all-purpose can-opener: the necessary 
approach is sex. 

Moving pictures, certainly as popidar a diversion as 
any in America, are no less indicative of the prevailing 
attitude. A very large proportion of the films produced 
in Hollywood are primarily concerned with the ex¬ 
ploitation of .sex. That is not true because most Holly¬ 
wood producers have over-active libidos. It is true 
because thev are making movies to make money, and 
they know, as do advertising men, that sex is the most 
.saleable article at hand. .So it is that we have the 
typical movie plot built around the escapades of a 
.sexually attractive woman, her lover, and a third per¬ 
son, male or female, who is injected to set up dramatic 
conflict between the first two. All of this adds iq) to 
what is called “glamour,” a quality which Hollywood 
has emphasized ad nauseam, (lerlain actresses whose 
decorative qualities far exceed their dramatic ability, 
which in Hollywood seems to vary inversely with sex 
appeal, enjoy a tremendous popularity as ornaments 
of the .\merican cinema. The entire reputation of 
Jane Russell, for examjile, who has hardly the slightest 
attribute which gained her national fame after her ap¬ 
pearance in one singularly inferior film. Furthermore, 
the advertising that publicizes such movies is often 
more indicative than the real content of the films. Fhc 

.MAY, 1919 


I'ngliNh language is lieing more and more exhausted 
= d meaningtul suj)erlati\es \\hile it is being supplied 
witli an e\ er-inereasing number ol synonyms lor sex. 
An\ mo\ ie that has even the slightest degree ol sexual 
interest is publiei/ed on that basis. I'be recent Italian 
film Paisan is a case in point. There must have been 
a great man\ disappointed mo^ ie-goers who exjrected 
to see a ■■sex\" fdm and were chagrined by a fleeting 
three-minutes'-worth ol sex in the middle ol an excel¬ 
lent war documentary. 

I_irrtRAR\' production also atlords an excellent 
reflection ol the emphasis upon anything and every¬ 
thing concerning sex. One ol the most widely-read 
t\pes ol book in recent years, particularly since the 
advent ol the Book-ol-the-Month-Club and the host ol 
similar enterprises, has been the historical novel. Its 
heroine is much the same kind ol “glamour girl” as the 
Hollywood beauty queen, although the setting is var¬ 
ied in point ol time and some historical data, olten 
distorted and usually inaccurate, is included to add 
flavor to the individual treatment of the worn-out 
theme. Forener Amber need hardly be mentioned as 
characteristic of this type. Its sales are evidence of the 
popular demand in current literature. Another mani¬ 
festation of that demand is apparent in books like 
Crod’s Little Acre. Caldwell and certain other authors 
like him have probably attempted to present a realistic 
portrayal of the life they know, but it is obvious that 
the vast majority of the reading public has entirely 
overlooked the artistic merit ol such w'orks and read 
them simply for the sex they contain. Publishers, of 
course, exploit the attitude ol the public by advertising 
each new book of this type and each new' historical 
novel as the “sexiest story of intrigue and romance” 
since the author’s last best-.seller. If they succeed in 
liaving a book banned in Boston, its sale is assured. 

In less serious literary attempts, we produce an un¬ 
paralleled amount of pornography, largely in the 
form of slick-paper fiction which is dumped on the 
market in remarkable profusion. Comic books, in 
which an exaggerated and often perverted treatment 
ol sex is dominant, have become the accepted reading 
matter for children. Exposure to such w'arped fantasy 
must necessarily have a great deal to do with the de¬ 
veloping attitudes of youth. But the publishers of 
comic magazines, like advertising men and movie pro¬ 
ducers, are concerned not with attitudes, but w'ith dol¬ 
lars, and they have found the most effective means to 
that end. 

Musical composition also evidences our extreme 

preoccupation with sex. Compare the relative time 
spent by radio stations in playing classical music, ja/.z., 
and popular music. There is little question as to which 
is most in demand. There are of course enthusiasts in 
all three categories, but by far the most predominant 
type is what we call the popular ballad. Jazz is a gen¬ 
uine expression of musical feeling. So is classical music. 
But ^vith the advent of the popular ballad came a wave 
of extreme sentimentalism characterized by crooners 
known variously as “the velvet fog” and “Frankie.” 
Radio is monopolized by their nauseous pledges of 
undving devotion. Their music is almost completely 
devoid of any real musical expression; it is, in fact, 
little more than a series of petulant w'hinings expres¬ 

sive of a frustrated, though imaginary, sex urge. The 
blissful squeals of teen-agers in a radio studio Avith 
Frank Sinatra or Perry Como are ample proof of that 
fact. But the w'ork of Mel Torme, Sinatra, and Como 
cannot be criticized on the assumption that it is the 
result of a sincere artistic endeavor, for it is above all 
else calculated to sell recordings, to increase radio 
audiences—to make money. 

T^HUS, in our business enterprise, theatrical taste, 
literary production, and musical expression, our so¬ 
ciety has become unique in its attitude toward sex. 
What had been a normal impulse from w'hich man 




derived a frank delight in Elizabethan times has 
emerged from the narrow prudishness of the Victorian 
age to be exploited and continually throwm before the 
pidilic eye. Sex has, in short, been prostituted in our 

propagation of the human race every since Adam and 
Eve stopped admiring the fruit in the Garden of Eden. 
Its aesthetic appreciation is not a recent innovation 
either. John Donne said all that need be mentioned 
on that score more than three hundred years ago. The 
significant difference, however, is that Adam and Eve 
made no bones at all about the matter, and even 
Donne’s attitude was simply an artistic glorification of 
a natural human urge — our own is more nearly a 
commercial aphodisia that know's no bounds. 

I hasten to add that 1 have no quarrel with sex 
within its natural limits, for that would imply not only 
the removal of definite source of delight from our lives, 
but racial suicide as well. Sex has been necessary to the 


by Doris Charrier 

T hat Beatrice is the strangest child; just now 
She ran into the hall and clapped her hands 
Behind her back. And as she hung her head 
Her skinny braids swung quickly out in front: 

“Ma, can’t I have just one old penny card” — 

.\ml Beatrice showed a clipping in her hand. 

“Just see; and all I need’s a card to get 
Ehat stuff she uses on her face at night — 

Ellis once. I cross my heart I won’t mess up 
My clothes a bit.” Then Beatrice sort of grinned 
.And tongued the place her middle tooth had been. 

H ey Ma, oh Ma, it’s come; just see the pink 

.And silver tidje—oh, Ma, it dropped and I 
just stpiashed it flat. It’s all come oozing out.” 
d hen Beatrice rubbed her finger in the spot 
.And went to get a cloth to clean it up. 

"Oh, Ma, I’ll work — I’ll work to buy a great 
Big Size,” and Beatrice gave a gulp and spread 
Ehe rag within her hand. Aon can’t cpiite tell 
just what that Beatrice will do next sometimes! 





E M()R\’ ^\'AS in his third year at the university 
and he was lunv in the midst of a course which 
surveyed the architecture of the world from the 
first cave to C'.orbusier and Frank Lloyd ^\hight. The 
professor that day had just begun to discuss Gothic 
architecture. Emory had had an insatiable interest in 
Ciothic: it had, in fact, inlluenced his coming to this 
particular university. Gothic (that is, what he called 
true Gothic and not Baptist-church-gothic) had al¬ 
ways excited him because of the unpredictable activity 
of the many, many accoutrements and appertenances, 
projections and insets, gargoyles and medallions that 
are the make-up of the architecture, the towers, the 
turrets, the composite chimneys, the arched windows. 
Emory looked out of his window and he could see all 
these things; but now the buildings were insentient 
and they fairly glistened in their twentieth century 
newness and Emory looked upon them with recently 
acquired distaste. Because that was what Dr. Erickson 
had lectured about that day: this university was a 
supreme example of not just eclecticism but complete 
imitation in the twentieth century of the Middle Ages. 
Buildings such as these in the twentieth century em¬ 
bodied a virtual rebellion against progress. This look¬ 
ing back to the past was a hangover of the Renaissance 
which. Dr. Erickson said, has been going on quite 
long enough now. It was a denial of the creativeness 
of our own age. And he went on to point out the 
utter ridiculousness of Gothic architecture in this 
century: the buttresses that buttressed nothing except 
steel girders which were quite capable of supjrorting 
themselves, the false chimneys, etc. 

'Ehese are times that try men’s souls, Emcjry cjuoted 
or mist|uoted from somebody, he wasn’t sure who and 
he really didn’t care because it was just a rhythmatic 
phrase that had popped into his head. It didn’t even 
have anything to do with what he w'as thinking be¬ 
cause he wasn’t thinking anything at the moment. 

But he supposed that his soul was under trial, or, if 
not a trial, a definite upheaval; and there were signs 
in the atmosphere that were boding a changing point 
of view. He was, however, not at all unhappy with 
his rapitlly growing new point of view. It was just 
that he was a little disappointed and maybe a little 
ashamed that he had been on the wrong track for 
such a long time. But he was indescribably grateful 
to Dr. Erickson for putting him on much safer in¬ 
tellectual footing. Dr. Erickson had told him what he 
should think and now it was totally up to him to com¬ 
pose his mental compartments and his new point of 
view would be complete. Then, if ever called upon to 
do so by society, he could communicate his point of 
view with impunity and with seeming insouciance. 

T JQST in thought?” 

Ray came through the door, threw some books on 
the table, and sat down rather breathless from climb¬ 
ing stairs. 

"Esse (jiiarn videre,” Emory said. 

He said it in a meditative way. 

“Hum. Profound,” Ray said. 

Emory sat for a moment looking out of the window. 
Then he said, 

“Or, Videre quain esse.” 

“Or . . . (htam esse videre. So what?” 

“So which is right?” 

“Which what?” 

“Why, esse qu-” 

"Ell aiiglaise, s’il vans plait, inoii ami,” Ray said. 

“Oh, never mind.” 

“Now, come on and tell me. I would really like to 
know what you are talking about. My interest has 
been aroused, you might say.” 

Emory wondered whether he should tell his rooni- 

CioLBF.RT S.MiTH, wliose stovies and poems have previously been published 
by the Archive, has studied com position under Dr. William Blackburn. Re¬ 
cently elected Editor of the ;\rchive, he is from (Ireensboro, North Carolina. 




mate about his new finding. He decided that he might 
as well since he had already gone this far. 

“Well, what I said was, To he rather than to seem, 
or, I'o seem rather than to he.” 

“I’liat is profound. That is the question, then?” 

“Yes, and what 1 contend is. Esse <ju —I mean. To 
he rather to seem, is right.” 

“And so? I’hat is not the totality of your thinking, 
1 trust.” 

Ray was being llipjxint, and flippancy does mjt lend 
itself to the revealing of a new point of view. But 
Emory, warming iqj to his sid)iect, went on neverthe¬ 

“That is only the general conclusion that 1 reached.” 

“You have been being inductive again. How nice. 
Well, what brought on this conclusion?” 


Emory reali/ed that the answer was insufheient; in¬ 
adequacy of answer always heightens the questioner’s 
interest. The trap worked. 

“What on earth do you mean?” Ray said. 

“Gothic architecture. Should (iothic architecture 
l)e used in Ituilding in the twentieth century? Look 
out there across the t|uadrangle. See what I mean?” 

“1 think it’s beautiful, if it is the Iniildings you 
mean,” Ray said. 

“Beautifid, yes; ljut is it practical?” 

“But, my dear Ijoy, practicality isn’t everything. 
Beauty must count for something.” 

“And why, may I ask, (Emory was taking on the 
flush of a fanatic) why can’t there be both beauty 
and practicality?” 

Ray thought for a moment and said, 

“Well, why?” 

“There can fje. Gothic in the Middle Ages was l)oth 
l)ut now it can’t lie. Neither are Glassic or \'i( torian. 

I he only architecture that can lie is the architecture 
of our own time.” 

“You mean modern architecture? Horrors!” 

Ray gave a mock cry of despair. 

“Do you call that stuff beautiful?” 

“It can lie. Look at what Erank Idoyd Whight has 
done. I hat college in Eloritla. It’s func tional and it 
has beauty too. Of course, like any new thing, you 
have to get used to it.” 

“W^ell,” Ray said, “I still like Gothic. 1 guess old 
Buck did too or he woeddn’t have built this university 
like it is. And, alter all, it was his money.” 

Emory didn’t know what to say to that. 

“I like Cfothic too, but in it’s j)lace. But to build in 
the architecture of the past is to deny the creativeuess 
of our age. ft is not adequate for the modern way of 

Ray was becoming visibly impatient with the argu¬ 
ment; it is easy to become impatient with one who 
argues fanaticly. 

“And so you see, it is not real architecture, because 
real architecture must ha\'e the maximum of use and 
beauty. It only seems, it only appears to be a real 

“Esse cpiain whatsit, eh?” 

“No. I’idere (juam esse-, but it .should be Esse (jiiam 

“Latin? . . . Well, why don’t ycju practice what you 
etcetera. 1 do not know Latin. Here you are iu the 
twentieth century; we are two specimens cd modern 
man. 1 do not know Latin, yet you insist on exjtlain- 
ing your thoughts iu that language ol the past. \’c)u 
are not being very functional, (iae.sar. Now, are ycju?” 

Emory did not answer. I'here was no answer, but 
he was sure that he was on the right track. It was just 
that his point ol view was undeveloped. \'es, that’s 
what it was. 


by C()R.\\\AI.I. I.M.ACK 

M il TON found it expedient 
.Always to be obedient 
To the law ol self-sui render and of love 
.\ncl he was, by Jove. 

.MAY, 1919 



Truman Capote Adds a Volume to the Lore of the Grotesqm 

Un Ol A^ (iRlGC; 

I I IS uiulcrstaicnicnt lo say lhal 
I niinan Clapoie lias not been uni- 
\crsall\ ai'ccptt'tl as a respcclable 
wi'iier. in spite ot the laet that his 
first novel last year was a best-seller. 
The number ol reatlers who piiblic- 
Iv athnit athniring Capote is so small 
that it is best describetl as being eso¬ 
teric. The mixed reaction which met 
Other I’oices, Other Rooms has be¬ 
come even more mixed (you might 
say conltisetl) -with the publication 
ol .-1 Tree of Right and Other 
Stories (Random House) . Truman 
Capote is the best inlluence since 
l-'aulkner astainst the tradition ol 
n tt m b n e s s and understatement 
which Hemingway introduced in 
.\merican fiction. He was one of the 
two outstanding new writers ot 1948. 
The closest he comes to reality is 
that he "lifts up his glass bell jar to 
allow us a closer look at some of the 
interesting specimens underneath.” 
.All this and more has been written 
ot Trtiman Capote, and there is 
some truth in all of it. There is also 
exaggeration. For anything like a 
lair evaluation, his writing must be 
(onsidered as a whole, and it must 
be remembered that he is a young- 
writer—twenty-four—and as yet is 
relatively undeveloped. 

Of his strange subject matter. 
Capote .says: “'Fhe actual, the un¬ 
adorned, all so-called naturalistic 
subjects have for me small interest. 
•So, too, do their opposite extremes: 
lantasy or pure There is 
in-between a territory uncharted, 
-diifting, imaginative — the country 
below the surface.” ft is this terri¬ 
tory that he tried to map in Other 
I oire.s, Other Rooms: a .symbolic, 
icmi-reali'.tic descrijHion o t } o e 1 

Knox’s arrival at adolescence. He 
has embarked on a sleepless, hazard¬ 
ous journey nhich leails him toward 
maturity, but what goal he is to 
reach is indeterminate and depeiul- 
ent on whimsy of accident as much 
as on himself. .Motherless, Joel Knox 
is pushed along his way by an un¬ 
known haml, bouncing — like the 
red tennis balls his mute father 
throws down the stairs to attract at¬ 
tention—to end up a mature—what? 
That is the question which is pur¬ 
sued through the novel. The in¬ 
fluences which bear on the boy are 
various and bizarre: a tomboy play¬ 

mate, a decrepit Negro called Jesus 
Fever, a demented step-mother, a 
paralyzed father, and his Cousin 
Randolph, who is certainly a cpieer 
duck if there ever was one. Joel es¬ 
capes into his own imagination for 
a while and is terrified by the real 
w'orld. The only human being with 
whom he feels anything in common 
is Cousin Randolph, abnormal in 
every way. “Faceted as a fly’s eye, be¬ 
ing neither man nor woman, and 
one whose identity cancelled the 
other, a grab-liag of disguises, who, 
what was Randolph? X, an outline 
in which with crayon you color in 
the character, the ideal hero.” No 
existing force can change the flow of 
tide which carries Joel with it, out. 

out towartl other rooms, far away’ 
where other voices will hold sway! 
a room known only by himself. Ran 
dolph; a room where everything 
like Randolph, is outline to be fillet 
in by one’s own desires, a rooir 
where nothing is, nothing can be 
created, the only room whose dooi 
was left unlocked to him. 

M UCH OF the interest in Other 
Voices, Other Rooms, aside from its 
virtues of style, lies in its autobio¬ 
graphical relationship to the author, 
who has by this time developed 

tpiite a reputation. A writer with 
the obvious talent for writing that 
is revealed in his work to date (a 
novel, eight short stories, several 
articles in the “slick” magazines) is 
inherently worthwhile w'atching; the 
only clue to the future of such a 
writer lies within the man himself. 
That is. Capote may become an im¬ 
portant writer if it develops that he 
has something to say. In Other 
Voices, Other Rootns the style is al¬ 
most perfect, the characters interest¬ 
ing and well drawn, but at the end 
of the novel there lacks a certain 
residue in the reader’s mind — an 
aroma—which is aliout all that he 
derives from having read a novel. 
I’hat residue is the memory of con- 








West Campus Union 

East Campus Union 

tact with leality and insight into it. 
with reality and insight into it. 
Some of the short stories in A Tree 
of Night and Other Stories presage 
something more successful. 

The finest stories in the volume 
are both technically well done and 
sufficiently interesting in the m e. 
Several of them center around an 
unknown, unseen terror which pur¬ 
sues the hapless characters through 
a land of half-reality. The best, 
“Shut A Final Door,” is about an 
advertising executive and a haunt¬ 
ing telephone voice which keeps say¬ 
ing “Oh, you know me, Walter. 
\'ou’ve known me a long time” and 
hangs up. “Shut Final Door” and 
Tree ol Night” are stories of hor¬ 
ror comparable to the best C.othic 
tales. “Ohildren on 7’heir Jiirth- 
days” seems to be rambling and un¬ 
believable chatter (in a style similar 
to that of Cfertrude Stein) about a 
jjrecocious and obnoxious child who 
is run over by a bus on her way to 
Ffollywood for a screen test, but at 
the end of the story the situation 
comes into locus and turns out to 
be a satisfying jKntrait. I'his is 
typical of the short stories; many of 
them can be understood from only 
one perspective. Suddenly they clear 
up and reveal sharply and boldly 
the intent of the author. And some¬ 
times the array of characters and 
objects remains obscure and en¬ 
shrouded, and one may suspect that 
Fruman (iapote in this case was 
Avriting a story taken from one of 
the other rooms of his mind that we 
are ncjt ])ermitted to probe — nor 
would Ave Avant to jjrobe them any- 
Avay. On the other hand, there is 
riotous humor in the volume also, 
mainly in “.\fy Side of the Matter,” 
a humorous episode about a hus¬ 
band, 1(), and his in-hnv troubles, 
Avhich arc enough to make anyone 
glad to be single. Fie ex])lains: “On 
Sunday, .Vugust 12, this year of our 
Lord, F.unicc (his A\ife) tried to 
kill me Avith her papa’s Oivil \\’ar 
sAvord and Olivia-Ann cut up all 
OAcr the place Avith a fourteen-inch 
hog knife.” .\11 ends cheerfully. 




Diverse in prominence, yet alike in taste, 

On each an apostle his name has placed. 

Enclosed by two comparatives of “mellow" 
Unscramble "chum”, here underlined in yellow. 

Where the Amazon and rubber meet you locate me. 
Hood. McKinley or Rainier completes my picture, see? 

Answers and names of winners will be available at 
magazine office. Winners will be notified by mail. 


1. Identify the 3 subjeets in back cover ad. AU clues are in ad. 

7 . Submit answers on Chesterfield wrapper or reasonable facsimile to this publication office. 

3. First ten correct answers win one carton of Chesterfield Cigarettes each. 

4. Enter as many as you like, but one Chesterfield wrapper or facsimile must accompany each entry. 

5. Contest closes midnight, one week after this issue’s publication date. 

6* All answers become the property of Chesterfield. 

7. Decision of judges will be final. 

The word “milder” appears twice in the ad in red letters, 
and the word “mild” (two-thirds of “milder”) appears in 
white letters. They all explain why Chesterfield is right. 

P Four eyes (Darnell’s and Griffin’s) are the 
same in color and shape, but not in fame, 
since Linda Darnell’s are much more famous. 

Q The pearl earrings worn by Linda Darnell. 


Chesterfield Humor Magazine 
Contest Winners 

John Weidnian 
Hugh G. Isley, Jr. 

Edgar Tonis 
Tom Seay 
Fifi F'nter 
Stan Miller 
Zaro Foster 
E. A. Cheny 

Hats Off to Duke Students 

In past years we have been proud to serve 

the Duke Students. In doing so we feel wt ^ 

have had a small part in aiding you to realize ^ ^ 



your high hopes for the future. 

It is our desire to continue to serve you 

now and in the years to come. 






Durham’s Foremost 

Packing Is a Job 
Nobody Likes So Why 
Be Bothered This 
Y ear? 

Store Your Winter 
Woolens and Furs in 
Our Cold Storage 
j Vault. Leave Them 
^Vith Us LIntil You 
Come Back to School. 
We’ll Deliver Them 
Fresh and Ready to 

810 West Main Street 
Most Convenient for 
Duke Students 

733 Foster Street 
Main Office 

Ol’ S l RICri LY a southern 
writer, Ciajjote jjrofesses to find pro¬ 
vincialism irritating. He has lived 
and worked in New York City tor 
seven years and many of his plots 
are placed there. In February he 
sailed to Europe to begin two years’ 
concentration on a new novel and 
has since turned up in, among other 
places, Rome, which is becoming the 
writer’s Mecca. If, in his second 
novel, Truman Capote is able to 
find a successful combination of 
style and real life, he may turn out 
to be the genius that some have pre¬ 
dicted. And, on the other hand, it 
is (juite po,ssible that in Capote we 
have a stylist, an expert scaffold 
builder, a genius in his own way, 
but unable to round out the strtic- 
ture. • • • 


(Coiiliiiuf'tl from Page j 
I’o those of us in the latter group, 
Pnb Row (and particidarly, in this, the Archive) has come to mean 
Duke University. There is much 
chiding and mockery leveled at the 
so-called “arty” set, and most of it 
is received as it is given: with a 
friendly spirit of competition and 
rivalry. But .some of this criticism, 
unlortunately, is meant .seriously 
and is given by who have no 
true understanding of what they are 

a t t a c k i n g. Fhe “perpetual case 
against the Archive " — as a former 
editor of the Chronicle i)ut it — will 
always be with us because there are who, through lack of personal 
interest in reading other than the 
funnies, will fight its existence. 

But even if the Archive were dis- 

Happy KjVlotoring 

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“IVe X ever Close” 

solved by the powers that be, an¬ 
other literary magazine w o u 1 d 
spring up in its place, no matter 
what the opposition, simply because 
those who believe in its value be¬ 
lieve in it with a sincerity equaled 
by few other groups on this campus. 
Perhaps this sounds too idealistic, 
but if so it is an idealism which has 
i t s practical consequences a n d 
which, in the final meaning of 
things, will outlast the more ephem¬ 
eral endeavors of most college stu¬ 
dents. —-R. D. Loomis 


(Continued from Page 9) 
the same taint that marks a gossip 

Perhaps we are getting used to it. 
Some instructors, God knows wh\, 
now feel that intellectual force alone 
will no longer hold a student’s at- 
tenticjn. He must needs descend and 
become one of the boys; in other 
words, for an instructor that means 
a state of ridicnlousness. Please do 
not misconstrue the term “one ol 
the boys” with itiformality. Informal as everybody knows, are the 
easiest and the most pleasant to take, 
but this kid’s stulf ought to go. 

When you think about it, all ol 
these things are rather childish. 
Maybe Duke is still sulfcring from 
infantaphobia, but then again, may¬ 
be we have reached the age of pu¬ 
berty when new and wonderful 
things begin to hajjpen. • $ • 

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Students Always 

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Phone 9-2256 



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On U. S. Route 70 

The Colonial Inn Is Well Known For Its Hospitality And Atmosphere 

Write or Telephone for Room Reservations for Graduation 
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‘Delicate” is the'Wovd! 

Linder a. parasol or an umbrella brim you see 
the sweetest dresses. Such is Ellen Kaye’s 
delicately demure chambray ivith a row of 
embroidery then of lace from soft little shoulder 
to little waist. Pastels or uhite, 7 to 15. 


JAMES H. DARDEN, Farmviile, N. C. says 

"I’ve smoked Chesterfields steady for 12 years. 
They're really MILDER. They buy mild, ripe, sweet¬ 
smoking tobacco . . . the kind that ends up in real 
smoking satisfaction." 


I k f 

□ V*Li \ L* 



I'r.R. o7d.756 

T&33'^ 194b/49 

V..J 542880 

The Archive 



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